Of Sand and Sovereigns

[Vine_sama]

Was craving a specific meal so I decided to try cooking it.

Read, review, rant and all that jazz. Constructive criticism is highly welcome.

Huge thanks to Wrighteous and Forzarismo for helping out with this chapter.

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Alubarna, Alabasta Kingdom, Grand Line



In a lavish room on the fourth floor of a luxury hotel, a certain man of 30 years was seated in front of the dresser mirror, attempting to bore a hole through his reflection. His expression was impassive, mouth opened slightly to clench the lit cigar between his teeth. Slicked back nape-length black hair crowned his head, and the golden hoop on his right ear caught the sunlight filtering through the curtains of the balcony archway and glinted ominously.

There was a presence to the man even as he just sat there like a statue in silence. His half-lidded gaze and relaxed posture spoke of power, of self-assuredness and confidence, of a certainty that some types of men carried themselves with.

The ceiling fan above whirred, cutting through the air quietly like a phantom, and continuously shifting the rays of light ever so slightly with every revolution.

The man raised a hand to his face slowly, as if in a daze, and the oppressive aura he exuded fractured immediately as he muttered a single word.

"Fuck."

​

---

I drew in a lungful of cigar smoke- wild, isn't it?- while counting the number of stitches on the scar that ran across my face. I breathed it out, watching my new hazel eyes regard themselves dully through the reflection of the mirror.

Sixteen stitches. I'm glad it wasn't thirteen. That would have been unlucky.

I never thought reincarnation would be this… inconvenient. You'd think if fate- or whatever cosmic HR department handles this- would at least ask for my input before dropping me in a world of super pirates. Give me a questionnaire: preferred time period, desired power level, please check this box if you'd rather not be dropped into the body of a man destined to suffer a humiliating defeat from a certain monkey-themed rubber idiot. But no. They just had to yoink a sleeping dude from his bed, didn't they?

Imagine my surprise when, out of the blue, I woke up as Sir Crocodile. Yes, that Crocodile. The one with a hook for a hand, a penchant for cigars, and a résumé that includes "camping for noobs and getting bitchslapped by Whitebeard," I would know; I inherited his memories.

Ugghh. Hurts to even think of it.

Let's be honest. If I were to evaluate Crocodile's performance as a villain of the series, then the one thing that came to mind would be "Discount Doflamingo". It wasn't even a joke. It was a literal situation of 'everything you can do, I can do better' between us. A criminal syndicate, plans to usurp a kingdom. Hell! Even the members of the Organization were just weaker versions of Doflamingo's Familia.

I was supposed to be the Big Bad of an entire saga. The final boss in a series of adventures for the protagonist who forced the main cast to recognize that they were heading into dangerous waters. To let it sink in that they were completely out of their depth.

And to be fair, Crocodile did do an excellent job at being a menace. That scene in the desert? Absolute peak, completely edit worthy, 10/10. But let us get to the crux of the matter. He lost. Lost to a rookie. A rookie so green, his defeat was what propelled him to Supernova status. And Kuma had the privilege of being the one to impart that lesson instead.

He had years of experience, resources, a literal country under his thumb, and still managed to get knocked into the dirt by a kid whose solution to anything was 'punch harder'. Said kid was the protagonist, sure, but still… C'mon man.

I groaned into my palm. The hotel room smelled faintly of cinnamon, cloves and expensive tobacco- my expensive tobacco, apparently. Alubarna's skyline stretched outside the balcony: sandstone buildings, domes glinting in the sunlight, streets bustling with merchants and camels. And here I was, "Sir Crocodile"- a Royal Warlord five years running, lounging in a five-star suite, smoking away my second chance at life before I'd even decided what to do with it.

Excellent.

The truth is, I didn't ask for this. In my old life, I was just another manga reader, sitting in my room devouring One Piece chapters and raving theories that bordered on lunacy on forums. I remember the catharsis I felt upon watching Luffy defeat him in the anime. I remember thinking, perhaps a bit sadly: This guy is cool, but he peaked too early. I remember the skeptic 'let's wait and see' attitude I had when Oda brought him back into prominence with that Guild of his. And now here I am- literally in his shoes, or more accurately, his ridiculously polished crocodile-skin boots.

Man, talk about karmic irony.

Standing up from the mirror, I paced around the room for a while before collapsing onto a couch.

"Okay," I muttered aloud, dragging on one of those fat cigars, and took a glance at the newspaper on the stool at my side. The issue date read September 1525, which, cross-referencing the memories I'd received upon entering this body, meant…

"I'm before canon." 14 years early, even. Gold Roger was executed in his hometown a couple years ago. The protagonist was still a toddler in the East Blue. He probably hadn't even eaten his fruit yet. I still had a bit of time. That was good, right? That had to be a good thing.

The smoke emerged in lazy spirals, scratching my throat. Crocodile's lungs apparently had a nicotine tolerance built like an ox, because I wasn't hacking them out like I should. "So I'm Crocodile. Fourteen years before canon. Haven't started Baroque Works yet. Haven't launched Utopia. No Robin on my side. Just me, a disoriented fan, and foreknowledge that the world is heading straight for a cataclysmic train wreck."

Because here's the kicker: I know what's coming. Not just Luffy punching my face in and spiriting away my waifu. No, I know about the big stuff. The rising sea levels. The Five Elders' abilities. I knew that what I was fairly certain to be Uranus, an ancient weapon, was in the World Government's hands, just waiting for a proper power source.

You'd think having this knowledge would be empowering, like holding the answer sheet to an impossible exam. But it's not. It's terrifying. Because if Oda's hints were right, this entire world is basically one cracked dam waiting to burst. Islands will drown, and entire civilizations will vanish beneath the waves. And that's not even considering the world-destroying battles that were certain to start occurring now that the story approached its endgame.

And me? I'm sitting here wondering if I should even bother starting a criminal organization. Why build sandcastles when the tide's already coming?

I let my head fall back against the couch, exhaling smoke through my nose like some disillusioned mob boss. "What now?" I whispered to myself.

​

---

The first problem was determining what my goal was. What it was that I wanted to do with this new chance I was given. Either in the short term or a more lasting resolution. And I was mildly surprised when I answered that question without much thought.

Safety.

I knew what was out there. I knew what was coming. And I most definitely had no idea of the real ground breaking knowledge and game changers that would have been revealed in the later chapters, but I knew it would be scary. Shonen tended to escalate when nearing the end of the story. And One Piece was a founding father of shonen. I was absolutely certain that the endgame was going to escalate quickly and violently. Hell, just between Wano and Egghead, several lore dumps that completely reworked the narrative of the story and the reader's understanding of certain events had been released.

This meant I had to gather enough power to be able to protect myself when fecal matter inevitably hit the rapidly rotating device. A means of both surviving the world-spanning deluge and defending against any of the monstrous means the final bosses of the world might deign to employ.

"I need power," I muttered to myself, idly setting down my glass of whiskey. Both personal and otherwise, I needed staunch friends, allies, and subordinates to support me; I needed a fortress. I needed a base. My base.

I sighed, flicking ash into a gold-plated ashtray shaped like a camel. Alabasta's king, Cobra, was still alive and well, and Crocodile hadn't even started making moves to topple him yet. Which left me with options. Dangerous, morally questionable options. Should I go full villain again, play my part, and set up Baroque Works like canon? Or should I go off-script, use my knowledge to play "hero"? Maybe grab some glory, some girls, and avoid the humiliation of being punked by a rubber teenager in front of a whole kingdom.

The first path has an obvious conclusion. I could build Baroque Works, recruit Mr. 1 through Miss Valentine, manipulate Alabasta, launch Project Utopia, and aim for "desert kingdom overlord" status.

But did I want to? "Hell, no."

That path had a 100% chance of ending in humiliation. Luffy shows up, smashes me into the dirt, steals Robin, and suddenly I'm cooling my heels in Impel Down until Marineford. Not exactly an inspiring destiny.

The second path would be to flip the script. Use my foreknowledge to mess with the story. But in what meaningful way? Ally with the Strawhats? I couldn't exactly wait the better part of the decade for their crew to form before approaching them and going, "Hey, I'm the guy who canonically almost destroyed a kingdom, but I've had a change of heart. Want to be friends?" Could I? Yeah, that would go well.

Or maybe I could build a better Baroque Works? Find stronger members than the original roster. Get rid of threats like Vivi way earlier? That left a sour taste in my mouth. And I immediately dismissed the idea. I did not want to become some evil mastermind tyrant archetype.

My leg began to bounce restlessly as my mind went through the options.

"Alternatively, I could just forge my own way," I mused, running my hand down silky smooth hair so different from my original coarse curls. "Forget Baroque Works, forget Utopia, forget canon. Strike out on my lonesome and use my knowledge of the world, the players, the coming upheavals, and attempt to carve out something new. Something better."

I stood from the couch and began pacing again. The idea had merit. It appealed to me in the way it would to every fan once given such a chance.

I could play everybody until I got to the top. After all, the World Government, the Yonko, the Revolutionary Army- they're all sharks in the water- threatening, but ultimately still visible. If I play it right, I could be the crocodile lurking in the mud, waiting for the right moment to snap.

I slowed my footsteps and paused to stare at the world beyond the balcony. The sun beat down on the golden city, and I could hear the distant din of people milling around and eking out a life for themselves. The sound of life travelled from all around and drifted into my room, and all of a sudden, I realized- understood- that this was real. I was in a real world, not some play. People moved and reacted to situations. Their choices shaping and being shaped by the circumstances surrounding them.

Even if I knew the broad strokes of future events, did that mean I was suddenly omniscient? People would react and adjust accordingly to whatever moves I made, and things would continue to spin away from what I knew. Could I also adjust to their adjustments? Make big-brained moves to outwit all the big-time schemers regardless?

Pfft, yeah right. I chuckled self-deprecatingly, the sound seeming to echo endlessly through the room. I can grandstand and posture like I'm plotting some grand destiny, but truthfully? I wasn't hot shit. And unfortunately, I knew enough to know I don't know nearly enough of this world. Deliberately throwing away something I had some level of familiarity with for a grand adventure wasn't something I could bring myself to do. Not at this moment. I was still too new, too naïve to go out to sea and build up something from scratch.

I mean, of course, the sea was a wide, wide place, and with just half the meta knowledge I could recall off the top of my head, I could make some serious profit and headway by positioning myself at the right places and times. But it would still be a massive undertaking with real chances that I wouldn't be able to take advantage of said opportunities and would just be wasting my time.

I sighed before dropping myself to the couch again and downing the rest of my whiskey, enjoying the burn down my throat.

No, it was better to stay in Alabasta. At least for the time being, while I get things sorted out. After all, Crocodile thrived here in the series; it stood to reason that employing some of his plans would net the same result for me, or perhaps even better results if I didn't turn myself into some sort of back-stabbing villain and primed myself to be just a stepping stone for the protagonist.

Hmmm. Choices, choices.

Regardless, if I intended to follow any of the latter paths, I would have to reach out to people in a trustworthy capacity.

Which brings us to another problem. And that was the issue of my fame, or rather, my infamy. I was "Sir Crocodile", the Desert King. A dangerous pirate who dared to attack even Whitebeard. Someone so powerful, the Government decided keeping me as an asset was preferable to wasting resources attempting to take my head.

My name was whispered in the same leagues as Dracule Mihawk and Gecko Moria. Certainly, that was a real ego boost and polisher, but the caveat was that that same reputation I had gathered made it difficult to do a few things inconspicuously- my face was too well known, and my name preceded me. It colored every interaction I could possibly have. This severely limited my choice of options to pursue going forward.

"I can see now why Crocodile spent more than a decade changing his public image to a 'good pirate'. That title gives me a tad more freedom for delicate movements." I mused aloud, pouring myself another glass of the amber liquid.

So, how did I go about that? Well, I suppose the original Crocodile had the real idea of it. I just needed to cultivate a new public image. A changed man. A warrior putting down the sword and picking up the hoe, so to speak. I could lean into the guardian role he had played in the original story. The Hero of Alabasta wasn't he? Had a nice ring to it. And this time, I'd do it for real with no intent to sabotage and overthrow the royal family.

This method was already shown to have worked and only fell through because Crocodile was, well, Crocodile. Faction building was certain to go better if the country wasn't undergoing a civil war.

I swirled the glass before sipping. Plus, they are from the Clan of D. after all. Can't go wrong with them as allies.

I took a larger sip before exhaling harshly through my nose.

That was settled then. I had a vague idea of the direction I wanted to follow. All that was left to do was walk it. I could make more intricate plans as I went. Get used to the extent of abilities I was aware I could use, refine them, and even develop them further. I did like the sound of pulling a Great Tomb Buri-.

My eyes snapped to the door moments before a knock sounded, and I could feel the presence of the woman behind it.

"Room service, honored guest."

I grunted and let her in, the woman's hesitation flaring like a sudden candle I didn't need to look at to see. The Color of Observation whispering its presence beneath my ribs.

Yes. I was definitely rediscovering all I was capable of before running anywhere.

​

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The next few days bled together in a haze of desert sun and smoke. Experimentation gave way to demonstration.

There's only so long you can sit in a room dissecting your nature before instinct demands to be exercised. So I took to the streets- quietly at first, then with purpose…

"Desert Spada."

A crescent of pressurized sand bisected the pirate captain mid-boast, and I watched the man fall over dead with dull eyes, his blood splattering over the sandstone walls of the alley in patterns that would have made for a decent punk rock album cover back in my old world.

His tongue really wasn't a good choice of weapon, was it?

I turned to regard the gathering of terrified subordinates surrounding me, and raised my eyebrow when the majority of them charged forward. They had usually scattered by now.

A small Sables swatted them aside like the annoying pests they were, leaving behind the three men who had not moved to engage me, and I blew out a billow of smoke. It'd taken me a couple of tries to be able to easily manipulate the size and effect of the technique.

I lifted my hand to hold onto my cigar, and one of them let out a scared yelp before all three jolted and scrambled away from me in different directions.

I let them go. I'd been doing the same for every group of pirates and criminals I came across over the last four days. Let them spread the news. I had been really tempted to pull a 'how many messengers are needed to send a message?' multiple times, but had ultimately been able to contain the impulse. Mainly because that routine needed two people to be executed perfectly, and I had no one to play off of.

I also needed more people to talk to achieve my goal faster. I wanted my presence to be established on the island, and rumors from countless witnesses in the form of civilians and these escaped pirates would kickstart that mill for me.

A Warlord was here, and he was doing clean-up. Why? Was it a government-sanctioned mission? Was he marking territory? Blowing off steam?

Let them whisper it in the taverns, and stammer it in market alleys. "Crocodile protects this city."

I rolled my eyes at the perplexed eep responding to my muttering, before throwing a glance at the small-time spice merchant I had just saved.

Correction. I did have someone to try that routine with. He was just so obviously not fit for the role, I couldn't even bother.

I nodded at him- a barely noticeable dip of my head- before stepping past his cart and turning to the thoroughfare, cigar clamped between my teeth, hook gleaming in the sunlight, coat dragging behind me, and ignoring the stammered and panicked words of thanks he hurried to send my way.

This was a performance after all, I had to keep up the act till exit, stage left.

Even though I really wanted to pull off that 'waving while walking away' move.

Back on the main avenue, the city throbbed with life. Alubarna wasn't just a capital; it was the beating heart of Alabasta, arteries pulsing with trade and ambition. Caravans of spices rolled in from Nanohana, silk merchants hawked their wares beneath broad awnings, and jewel traders from Yuba flashed rings on every finger. I caught the scent of roasted lamb drifting on the breeze, mixed with dust and camel sweat.

And the sound- always the sound. The rhythmic thump of tabla drums from a side street, the shout of hawkers extolling miracle perfumes, the clink of dice cups in gambling dens tucked between respectable shops.

I strolled at an unhurried pace, boots crunching over sandstone. My eyes skimmed everything: the way gold chains gleamed in the sun; the way caravan masters haggled with voices like drawn swords; the growing cluster of taverns and gambling houses sprouting like weeds along the main road.

Children darted between stalls, barefoot and laughing, weaving through the crowd like minnows. A mother yanked her daughter out of the way as my shadow loomed past, eyes wide when she realized who I was. I gave her the faintest tilt of my head. She stammered a thank you that made no sense and pulled the child along.

Ah, yes, the other side of reputation. Fear. It curled around me like a cloak, uninvited but useful.

Still, I wondered how long the royal family would tolerate me walking their streets, dispensing my own brand of justice. Cobra was no fool. He was sure to have eyes all over his capital city. Word of my demonstrations would have reached him by now. Would he see me as an ally reinforcing order? Or a threat marking territory?

I turned my head to look at the giant structure in the distance, even as I pictured the throne room, all sandstone columns and velvet banners. King Cobra, dignified but weary, frowning as his advisors whispered poison in his ears. They'd call me opportunist, usurper, wolf in camel's clothing. And they wouldn't be wrong.

The capital was thriving, for now. Merchants shouted from stalls piled with fruit imported from islands far less cursed by the climate. Carpets rolled out across the dusty streets, their patterns hypnotic enough to almost make one forget the sand grinding underfoot. Jewelers sparkled their wares at nobles, while thieves hung back in the alleys, hands twitching at the thought of an easy purse. Alubarna wasn't quite the heart of luxury, but it had the steady beat of commerce- a rhythm built on taxes, caravans, and the eternal trade of survival in a desert kingdom.

But I wasn't interested in staking my claim here. Not yet.

No, Alubarna was too governmental, too drenched in the presence of Cobra's bureaucrats. The royals had their watchful eyes everywhere, and while they tolerated me now- because the Marines demanded it, because the title of Shichibukai still meant something- they'd never let me build unchecked power right under their palace balcony. No, a man like me needed a freer city. Somewhere already bent toward vice, or at least more negotiable in its loyalties.

I stopped beneath the shade provided by the awning of a stall and pulled another cigar from my coat pocket, lighting it against the hot wind. The smoke mingled with the dry air, curling lazily as I continued my stroll.

Two places come to mind.

Rainbase. The so-called City of Dreams. Built on gambling, its name alone conjured decadence. A haven where coins clinked like rain against stone, where caravans stopped just long enough to lose their fortunes before trudging back into the desert. It was already half the Vegas I envisioned- tables loaded with cards, women wrapped in silks, liquor flowing like a mirage that never ended. The city's commerce thrived not on necessity, but on indulgence. If I were to plant my flag there, the soil would already be fertile.

But fertile soil draws scavengers. Rainbase crawled with underworld parasites- conmen, smugglers, fixers, all pretending they held the city's pulse. That meant I would have to break more bones, silence more whispers. And though violence has its place, too much draws attention, the kind of attention Cobra couldn't ignore forever. Rainbase was profitable, but it was volatile. Setting up base there appealed to the edgy kid in me that still wanted to play at being a Casino Tycoon.

Then there was Nanohana. The harbor city. The gateway to Alabasta. Where ships came and went in an endless tide of trade, carrying spices, silks, arms, and rumors. It wasn't glamorous, not like Rainbase. No glitter of dice, no painted courtesans at every corner. But Nanohana thrummed with something more valuable than luxury: access. Whoever controlled Nanohana controlled Alabasta's arteries. Every foreign good, every whisper from the seas beyond, flowed first through that port before it reached the desert's heart.

But Nanohana had its own drawbacks. The Navy watched the port with hawk eyes- after all, smuggling and piracy thrived there as easily as honest trade. Establishing myself in Nanohana would mean dancing closer with Marine oversight, and while I wear the Warlord title like a shield, even shields can crack under enough pressure. Politically, Nanohana was trickier. Economically, it was a gold mine.

I exhaled smoke, watching it twist into the wind as the debate rolled through my head. Rainbase versus Nanohana. Decadence versus access. Dice versus ships.

Well… when I put it that way, it's hardly a debate, is it? The choice was obvious.

Both. Both were good.

Heh… A certain pair of gold-seeking friends would have been proud.

I flicked the ash from my cigar, the ember glowing briefly before the desert breeze devoured it. There was still time to truly decide. For now, let the survivors spread their tales, let the whispers of the Warlord weave themselves into rumor and myth. Let the people cling to whatever version suited them best. In the end, it would all serve the same purpose: my name would carry.

I smiled thinly, squinting at the glint of the sun in my eye, and the sudden urge to laugh suffused my guts.

"Ku-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha…"

Let the people of the desert whisper. I'll answer soon enough.

​

---

"This is interesting."

I hummed the words under my breath, taking my finger out of the glass of water and watching the surface ripple. The towel napkin came up on the hook before I realized what I was doing, the motion smooth and precise, like muscle memory that wasn't mine. I paused.

The dexterity still surprised me. The ease with which I performed tasks that should've been awkward or clumsy. It crept up on me sometimes- the reminder that I was, in truth, maimed. Unimaginably proficient at using his crude prosthetic, yes. But a cripple nonetheless.

By the time I had shaken myself out of the thought, all the moisture had been absorbed by my index finger.

I smirked.

"Well, that's neat."

The suite was quiet except for the wind pushing faintly at the balcony drapes. Alabasta never truly slept- even the night air carried the scent of heat long spent. I pushed the glass aside, leaned back in the chair, and let my fingers drum against the armrest. Grains of sand fell from my knuckles like desert wind slipping through fingers, catching the glow of the lantern like flecks of gold dust before vanishing into the carpet.

What was interesting, you ask? Well, the answer to that question would be: a lot!

You see, I had been discovering, or re-discovering, the extent of my abilities granted to me by the Sand-Sand Logia, and I have to say, I am impressed.

It's a strange thing, realizing your body isn't entirely yours anymore.

I learned that thanks to a falling teacup. The porcelain shattered against the heavy glass table, and the shards leapt up like shrapnel toward my hand. I didn't think, didn't even flinch, and yet, my fingers were gone before the pieces struck. They dissolved, scattering into a puff of sand that clattered harmlessly to the tiles.

That was the first time I understood what true reflex meant.

My intangibility isn't something I command. It's instinct. The moment danger even brushes against me, my body unravels of its own accord, faster than thought, faster than will. I don't choose to dissolve; I simply do. Self-preservation baked into every grain.

After that little accident, curiosity got the better of me. I started to test it. The boundaries of that reflex. How far did it go? How absolute was it?

I tried a myriad of experiments, from jabbing a knife suddenly into my thigh to snuffing out a lit cigar on the back of my hand. Each time, the transformation came first, thought second. My body shattered into sand before the blade could pierce or the heat could sear, as if it anticipated harm. The response was instantaneous, mechanical. Like a struck nerve jerking a limb.

Odd, really. For all my control, all my effort to master this ability, the truth was that it obeyed itself more faithfully than it ever obeyed me.

And, rather funnily, it was the opposite that demanded discipline.

Flesh wasn't my natural state anymore. It's a choice. Every time I uncrossed my arms or stretched my legs or flinched at the glare of reflected sunlight, I had to consciously stop myself from dissolving into granules of dirt.

To be sand was safety, to be human was dangerous.

The irony doesn't escape me.

I stood, letting the towel fall away, and walked toward the balcony window. The desert stretched beyond the city, silver under the moonlight, patient and endless. Alabasta glistened faintly from the rain that had passed earlier, rare and reluctant. I stepped onto the balcony. The smell of wet sand still clung to everything.

I ran the curve of my hook across the wet railing, watching it collect the droplets.

Rain.

The embodiment of my weakness.

I'd always known, of course, back when all of this was fiction, I knew that water was Crocodile's undoing. But knowing something and living it are two entirely different beasts.

It's one thing to watch a man crumble on a screen; it's another to feel your own body rebel under the feel of water. I hadn't expected the instinct- that deep, primal tension that ripples through me whenever a stray droplet lands on my skin. A lifetime of enjoying the rain, of letting showers wash fatigue from my body, was replaced in an instant by a visceral revulsion.

It's jarring.

Unnatural.

Like being rewritten at the marrow.

That discomfort was what pushed my latest round of experiments. If I were to coexist with this curse, I had to understand its edges; its rules, its exceptions.

Tonight's test was simple enough: could I turn my finger to sand while it was submerged in water?

A foolish question on the surface. Every scrap of knowledge I had, both from the source material and my own growing familiarity, said no. Water should nullify my ability entirely; locking the grains together and strangling the flow that lets me come apart. By all logic, I shouldn't have registered any feedback from it once submerged- the command to unravel should've met dead resistance.

And yet… I did.

The feedback was faint, but undeniable. My finger responded. The command to disintegrate reached it. It didn't complete the transformation, didn't even start, but it tried. And that alone was enough to make my pulse quicken.

The sensation was unlike anything else. If transforming into sand under normal conditions is as effortless as breathing, then doing so underwater feels like trying to laugh after a brutal core workout; painful, sluggish, strained. Every grain of will dragged through resistance that shouldn't exist.

But it was still possible.

Slow. Torturous. But not impossible.

That realization lingered in the air like the aftertaste of smoke. The implications were... fascinating.

If water didn't render me helpless, only restricted, then perhaps the limits of my weakness weren't as absolute as the world assumed.

And in a world where information was power, a misunderstood weakness was the sharpest weapon of all.

I turned my hand over, flexing the fingers as if expecting them to crumble on command. A few stray grains of sand flaked from my palm and drifted down to the balcony floor, clinging briefly before the night breeze scattered them into the desert air.

I watched them go, tiny specks of myself returning to the greater whole.

And that's when the thought struck me.

I reached out, stretching my awareness toward the dunes that glimmered faintly beyond the city's edge, silvered under the moonlight. They seemed close enough to touch. The wind whispered across them, sculpting ridges and valleys in slow motion. I could see them. I could smell the faint, metallic tang of wet sand drying. But when I reached for them- really reached, the way one might stretch their fingers and toes in an attempt to grasp the invisible- I felt nothing.

No response.

No resonance.

The grains out there were deaf to me. Alien.

I focused, fingers spread wide, will extending like invisible tendrils. I imagined pulling them toward me, commanding them to rise. To answer. To become part of me.

Nothing.

The desert remained still, indifferent.

I crouched, running my palm along the balcony floor. The texture was slick from rain but rough underneath, a thin layer of grit the storm had blown in. I pressed my fingers into it, urging it to lift. To swirl. To obey.

It didn't.

Frowning, I let my own body unravel, my hand dissolving into fine, dry dust that hissed softly against the wet surface. That sand stirred, alive under my will, coiling upward like smoke. It danced obediently in the air, wrapping around my wrist before reforming into flesh again.

My own sand answered me like a loyal hound. The world's sand ignored me like a stubborn mule.

I stood from my crouch and leaned against the railing, exhaling a thin plume of smoke from the cigar I hadn't realized I'd relit. The ember glowed briefly against the darkness.

"So that's how it is," I murmured to no one.

It made sense, in a way. My sand wasn't truly sand, not geological, not born of stone and time. It was an extension of myself, an expression of my body and will. To command the desert would be like ordering another man's blood to flow.

Still… it rankled.

The desert stretched endlessly before me, silent and vast, a kingdom of dust that refused to kneel. It felt almost mocking- an empire that should have been mine, denying its rightful ruler.

I scraped my hook across the railing again, drawing a harsh metallic rasp that cut through the quiet.

"You'll bow eventually," I muttered, half to the sand, half to myself.

The wind shifted. For a fleeting instant, the dunes in the distance seemed to ripple- just a trick of the moonlight, surely- but the illusion was enough to make me grin.

Perhaps the sand wouldn't bend to me. But I could still become something greater than it.

After all, control wasn't always about domination. Sometimes, it was about making the world believe you already owned it. Tricking it into submission.

"One day", I said to myself, "this entire kingdom- desert, sand, and all- will answer when I call."

But for now, I would settle for mastering the piece of it that lived within me.

I turned back toward the room, the faint sound of rain still dripping from the eaves, and flexed my fingers. A few more grains fell away and vanished into the floorboards.

I rolled my shoulders once, feeling the stiffness of the long day settle into the seams of muscle and scar tissue I never earned. My gaze drifted down to my hand again. I watched the veins move under my skin, the faint tremor of life pulsing through flesh that no longer felt entirely mine. And a thought struck me.

What if?

I had never attempted it before. But now was as good a time as any.

I took a single breath.

Then I let go.

It began at the fingertips- a shimmer, a tremor, then dissolution. Flesh peeled away in silence, replaced by rippling streams of gold and beige. The transformation spread, rolling up my arm like an unraveling bandage. My torso followed, shoulders, legs, until the last fragment of my human form- the line of my jaw, the curl of my cigar smoke- dissolved into a thousand grains.

And I was.

Sand.

The world fractured into a thousand perspectives. Every grain a sliver of awareness. My body ceased to be a singular thing; it was a storm on a patio, a cloud of myself drifting, shifting, alive. I could feel the air pressure against each particle, the faint tug of gravity, the pull of the wind breezing all around me.

There was no heartbeat. No breath. No weakness.

Only awareness.

And movement.

I drifted forward, a living cloud sliding across the floor. The sensation was intoxicating; frictionless, free. Where a man would walk, I flowed; where a hand would reach, I enveloped.

A laugh escaped me. A low, rumbling thing that vibrated through the air rather than a throat. It was absurd, this ability. Terrifying in its simplicity. Every molecule under my control, every grain obeying a single thought.

With a twist of will, I surged past the railing, my form splitting into ribbons of sand that coiled through the bars like smoke.

The air caught me and carried me past the balcony rail, a stream of gold and beige flowing outward into the city below.

I spread thin over the sandstone streets, trailing through alleyways and rooftops, a living haze careening above Alubarna. The world felt different like this- sharper, broader. Every current of air brushed against me, every vibration through the stone walls hummed through the sand that was me. I could taste the remnants of rain in the wind, faint and mineral, clinging stubbornly to the city's skin.

Far below, the lamps burned like stars half-drowned in mist, their light catching on the grains that composed my being, scattering reflections in quiet defiance of the night. The city pulsed with life- muffled laughter from a tavern, the groan of a distant wagon, the rhythmic beat of hooves echoing against wet stone. Alubarna breathed, and I was that breath- a whisper of sand carried on the wind.

So this… this is what they feel.

That serene arrogance every Logia carried- it wasn't delusion. It was truth. To unmake yourself, to dissolve until you're everywhere at once, until your body ceases to be a prison, but a force of nature- that's a level of freedom that most people would ever experience. It was beyond just freedom. It was almost divine.

The desert was beneath me now, shimmering blue and endless in the night light.

I drew myself together again. The wind thickened over a dune, sand swirling into a vortex before collapsing back into shape. Limbs reformed, body knitting seamlessly from the swirl, and when I exhaled, it was as though I'd been holding my breath for minutes.

My feet touched the soft sand. The transition was so smooth it barely disturbed the dust.

A few stray grains slipped from my coat and vanished into the night. I looked out across the endless desert and couldn't help the small smirk that formed.

"So this," I spread my arms wide, as if to hug the entire world, "is what it means to be untouchable."

​

---

I sat on my couch, half-turned to the rays of budding light seeping through the curtain, watching the smoke curl from my cigar. It rose, languid and sure of itself, a line of grey ambition.

My eyes drifted back to the creature on the small table in front of me and I blew twin thin trails out of my nostrils.

I raised my hand- the scarred one- and flexed the fingers that weren't there. Gold glinted where flesh should have been. A ridiculous symbol, really. Power and ruin, bound in the same gesture.

It should have scared me. A dead man's empire. A body carved from arrogance and loss. And me, the undeserving guest wearing his sins like a tailored suit. It didn't.

I took another drag. The taste burned, harsh and honest. Somewhere deep in my chest, something old- something Crocodile- stirred in recognition.

A laugh escaped me, low and deliberate. "Well then…"

The mirror across the room caught the smirk before I did- sharp, knowing, and entirely too familiar.

Whatever I had been before, whoever I'd been, it didn't matter. The world would only ever remember him.

The Den Den Mushi on the table clicked its eyes open, waiting. Its shell reflected my new face. My new truth.

"…Let's make this name worth keeping."

 

[Twigtree]

If its "nsfw maybe" you should move it to nsfw for a "just in case"
Anyway. Cheers and good work

 

[Vine_sama]

If its "nsfw maybe" you should move it to nsfw for a "just in case"
Anyway. Cheers and good work

Click to shrink...

Ah! I thought I was there already. My bad.

 

[Ahtu]

Interesting start. Hope he takes in Robin eventually. Perhaps best not to seek her out openly, as that would get the World Government on his back. But he could probably ferry her away in secret, and offer her safety, a job, and a chance to study and learn about poneglyphs from him.

Another thing to consider, is that that he is perhaps in time to save Bellemere, and so recruit Nami.

 

[Vine_sama]

Interesting start. Hope he takes in Robin eventually. Perhaps best not to seek her out openly, as that would get the World Government on his back. But he could probably ferry her away in secret, and offer her safety, a job, and a chance to study and learn about poneglyphs from him.

Another thing to consider, is that that he is perhaps in time to save Bellemere, and so recruit Nami.

Click to shrink...

Never thought of Bellemere and Nami. That's interesting

 

[Slizz]

Good start. Interested in what comes next, this time period of One Piece isn't really mentioned in canon so there's a lot of freedom for your story.

 

[Simplexity]

I hope he actually just gets a new crew. Like it's like every SI into the one piece world just steals some of Luffy's crew instead of getting one of the....tons of various characters introduced to join instead.

Like come on...

 

[Vine_sama]

I hope he actually just gets a new crew. Like it's like every SI into the one piece world just steals some of Luffy's crew instead of getting one of the....tons of various characters introduced to join instead.

Like come on...

Click to shrink...

Looks at my notes

I think I won't disappoint....much

 

[Schadenfreude90]

Interesting start and way too early in canon so he can grow strong and nab few good crew

 

[Slizz]

Will you be adding stuff from movies like Gold, Red or Stampede?

 

[Vine_sama]

Will you be adding stuff from movies like Gold, Red or Stampede?

Click to shrink...

Up in the air. Perhaps the characters themselves but not events. Who knows?

 

[Vine_sama]

Between the last update and this, Oda in his infinite capriciousness, decided to finally let us know the year of the current timeline. Turns out, I was off by 17 years. I have gone ahead to rectify that but I just thought I'd share. At least this information came before I invested too much time into my worldbuilding document for this fic.



Read, review, rant and all that jazz. Constructive criticism continues to be welcomed and appreciated.



Huge thanks to Wrighteous, Lincoln859, dachdecker69, and Forzarismo for beta-ing this chapter.



Enjoy.

---

Alubarna, Alabasta Kingdom, Grand Line



The Den Den Mushi sat on the table like a patient servant, its shell painted in muted browns and grays. I lifted the receiver and began dialing, watching the snail's eyes blink open as the connection established.

Three rings. Then a click.

"Gilder speaking." The voice that came through was smooth, oiled by years of brokering deals in shadows. A man who operated out of Water 7 with the kind of quiet efficiency that kept the World Government's eyes conveniently elsewhere. We'd done business before. Crocodile had, anyway. The memories were mine now, and with them came the understanding that Gilder was the sort of contact you kept at arm's length and treated well.

"It's me." I let the words settle, taking a slow drag from my cigar. The smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling fan.

A pause, then a low chuckle. "Well, well. Didn't expect to hear from you so soon, Sir Crocodile. Last I heard, you were after an Emperor's head." There was the rustle of papers on his end, the clink of glass- whiskey, probably. Gilder always drank while working. Said it helped him think. "What can I do for you?"

"Enlighten me first." I tapped ash into my camel-shaped tray. "What's the climate like in Paradise right now? I've been focused on local matters. Need a broader picture."

"Ah." The sound of liquid pouring. "Well, post-Roger chaos is settling into new patterns. Paradise is crawling with fresh crews trying to make names for themselves. Some of them are competent. Most aren't. The ones that are? Either looking for work or looking to die trying to carve out territory."

"And current events? Anything I should know about?"

Gilder hummed thoughtfully. "Depends on what you're looking for. Bet you're already aware of the big ones. Flevance is the big tragedy everyone's whispering about, Amber Lead finally did what the doctors said it would. The whole country's collapsing. Government's quarantined it, shot anyone trying to leave. Messy business. Lots of refugees trying to slip through, if you're in the market for desperate labor."

I exhaled slowly. Flevance. The White City. In a year or so, a certain boy with spotted skin and a death wish would crawl out of that hell to later claim a power that could unmake the world. But right now, it was just a tragedy in progress. Useful information, but not immediately actionable.

"Noted," I said. "But that's not why I called."

"Figured as much. You're not the humanitarian type." I could hear the smile in his voice. "So what is it? Arms? Information? Personnel?"

There it was. The opening.

I leaned back in my chair, letting the silence stretch just long enough to be deliberate. "All three, potentially. But let's start with personnel. I'm going to need people- competent people. Not foot soldiers. I'm talking about specialists. Middle management types who can handle operations without constant supervision."

"Trustworthy middle management is expensive, Crocodile. And rare." Gilder's tone shifted, became more businesslike. "Most people with that kind of competence either work for the Government or one of the Emperors. The ones who don't usually have good reasons for staying independent."

"Then find me the ones with the right reasons." I rolled the cigar between my fingers, watching the ember glow and dim. "I'm not asking for saints. I'm asking for professionals. People who understand that loyalty is a transaction, and I pay well for quality."

"Fair enough." More rustling. "What kind of timeline are we talking?"

"Flexible. I'm laying groundwork now, but I don't need bodies until the foundation's set. A few weeks, maybe months." I paused. "What about arms?"

"Guns, blades, cannons- standard stock from North Blue factories, mostly. Nothing exotic unless you give me lead time and deeper pockets. I can also source some East Blue steel if you want quality over quantity."

"Keep it in mind. I'll let you know the specifics when I'm ready to place orders."

"Understood. And information?"

I took another drag, considering my words carefully. "Devil Fruits. I want to know about any that surface in Paradise. Confirmed sightings only- I'm not interested in rumors or painted pumpkins."

A low whistle. "That's a tall order, Croc. Devil Fruits don't exactly advertise themselves, and the ones that do get snapped up fast. Governments, Emperors, ambitious pirates. Everyone's hunting them."

"Which is why I'm willing to pay premium rates for good intelligence." I let steel enter my voice. "I'm not asking you to acquire them, Gilder. Just tell me when and where they appear. I'll handle the rest."

"Alright, alright. I'll add it to the list." Another sip of whiskey. "Anything else?"

I considered mentioning specific fruits- Flame Flame, Op Op, Hobby Hobby- but decided against it. Too specific. Too revealing. Better to cast a wide net and filter later.

"That's all for now. I'll be in touch when I'm ready to move forward. Start putting out feelers for personnel. I want names and backgrounds when we speak next."

"You got it. Oh, and Croc?" Gilder's voice took on a more serious tone. "Whatever you're building out there in the sand... make sure it's worth the investment. The Grand Line doesn't forgive half-measures."

I smiled, sharp and cold. "Neither do I."

I placed the receiver down before he could respond, and the Den Den Mushi's eyes slid shut, retreating into its shell.

Standing, I walked to the balcony window. The sun had fully come out and started its bright journey, painting Alubarna in shades of amber and gold. The city sprawled below, alive with commerce and ambition. Somewhere out there, King Cobra sat in his palace, making decisions that shaped this kingdom. And soon, very soon, I'd be sitting across from him, offering my own brand of assistance.

But first, I had to wait for him to make the first move.

I crushed the cigar foot in the ashtray and turned back toward the room, settling onto the couch with the day's newspaper.

Time to see how long it would take for the King of Alabasta to summon the Desert King.

​

---

The knock came two days later, in the grey light of early morning.

I was already awake. Crocodile's body didn't seem to need much sleep, another peculiarity I was still cataloguing, sitting at the small desk by the window, reviewing a ledger of current assets. The numbers were simultaneously impressive and disappointing. Crocodile had money, certainly more than most pirates, but not the kind of wealth that built empires overnight.

"Enter."

The door opened to reveal a young man in palace livery, his expression carefully neutral despite the sweat beading on his forehead. Messengers who dealt with men like me learned quickly to control their fear. This one had learned well.

He bowed, just deep enough to be respectful without scraping. "Sir Crocodile. I bring a message from His Majesty, King Nefertari Cobra."

I gestured lazily with my hook. "Let's see it."

He crossed the room in quick, precise steps, placing a cream-colored envelope on the desk before retreating just as swiftly.

I picked up the envelope, turning it over to examine the seal. Blue wax, pressed deep with Alabasta's royal crest. Official. Formal. And almost certainly not a social invitation.

I raised my hook, the golden curve catching the morning light, and slid the point beneath the wax seal with deliberate care. The seal cracked cleanly, splitting along the impression, and I unfolded the parchment with my other hand, the paper thick and expensive beneath my fingers

The script was elegant, written by a professional scribe:

Sir Crocodile, Warlord of the Sea,

Your recent activities within our borders have not gone unnoticed. While we acknowledge your status under the agreement between the World Government and the Seven Warlords, the Kingdom of Alabasta maintains sovereignty over its lands and the welfare of its citizens.

We invite you to an audience at the Royal Palace to discuss your intentions and explore potential arrangements that may prove mutually beneficial.

We await your response at your earliest convenience.

Signed,

His Majesty, King of Alabasta, Guardian of the Ancient Line, Protector of the Sandora, Sovereign of the Desert Kingdom,

Nefertari Cobra

I read it twice, noting what was said and, more importantly, what wasn't.

No accusations. No threats. But no warmth either. "Recent activities" was diplomatic speak for "you've been killing people in our capital, and we'd like to know why." The mention of sovereignty was a gentle reminder that Warlord status didn't make me immune to local authority. And "mutually beneficial arrangements" was the carrot dangling at the end of a very polite stick.

Cobra was smart. I'd known that from the source material, but that was just ink and exposition. This- this careful dance of words and unspoken threats- was the real thing. He wasn't trying to strong-arm a Warlord or posture about his authority. He was inviting dialogue, establishing boundaries, and leaving room for negotiation.

I could work with that.

I set the letter down and looked up at the messenger, who was still standing at attention near the door, probably hoping I wouldn't shoot the messenger literally.

"Tell His Majesty I accept his invitation. I'll present myself at the palace in three days' time."

The young man bowed again. "His Majesty will be pleased to receive you, Sir Crocodile. Shall I arrange for an escort?"

"No." I waved my hand dismissively. "I'll make my own arrangements."

Relief and confusion warred on his face before professionalism won out. "As you wish, sir. The palace will expect you three days hence."

"I'll be there. Expect me at dawn."

He bowed one final time and departed, closing the door with a soft click that somehow sounded loud in the quiet room.

I turned back to the letter, reading it once more. Three days. Enough time to prepare, to think through my approach, to decide exactly what kind of relationship I wanted to establish with Alabasta's throne.

The original Crocodile had played the long game; years of reputation building, all to position himself for the perfect backstab. But that game had ended in Impel Down's darkness, all his carefully laid plans unravelling in a single afternoon.

I wasn't going to repeat his mistakes.

If I was going to build something in this kingdom, it would be built on something more stable than deception. Not altruism, I wasn't deluded enough to think I'd become some kind of hero. But perhaps... pragmatism. A genuine alliance, where both parties benefited and neither had to constantly watch their back.

Revolutionary concept, that.

I stood, stretching until my spine cracked, then moved to the closet. Three days meant three days of preparation. I needed to look the part- not threatening, but not submissive either. Powerful but approachable. A Warlord who could be reasoned with.

I pulled out the fur coat, running my hand over the fabric. Expensive, dramatic, unmistakably Crocodile. It would do.

Outside the window, Alubarna was waking up. Merchants opening their stalls, workers heading to their trades, the city's heartbeat beginning its daily rhythm. In three days, I'd be sitting across from the man who ruled all of this, negotiating the future.

I smiled, sharp and anticipatory, and reached for a fresh cigar.

"Let's see how reasonable a king can be."

​

---

Three days passed in a blur of preparation and quiet calculation.

I spent the time refining my approach, rehearsing talking points that walked the line between cooperation and independence. How much to reveal, how much to withhold. What concessions to offer, what boundaries to establish. The meeting with Cobra would set the tone for everything that followed. Rush it, and I'd look desperate; overplay my hand, and I'd seem threatening.

By the time the appointed day arrived, the decision I'd made felt even more right than when I'd first settled on it: pragmatic partnership with clear mutual benefit. No hidden agendas, no elaborate schemes. Just two men discussing how to make a dangerous world slightly less dangerous for their respective interests.

Simple. Clean. Sustainable.

Boring, whispered a part of me that still remembered being Crocodile- that still craved the thrill of outmaneuvering opponents, of holding all the cards while everyone else played blind.

I crushed that voice beneath my heel and focused on the present.

The carriage I'd hired was modest; no ornate designs, no military escort, just well-maintained wood and canvas pulled by a pair of sturdy camels. Its only decoration was Alabasta's national symbol painted on the side panel, colors bright, proud and carefully maintained.

I couldn't help the snort of mild amusement that escaped me. Patriotic.

The driver was a local named Rashid, a weathered man in his fifties who'd spent decades ferrying travelers between cities. Technically overkill for what amounted to a neighborhood drive- the palace sat well within Alubarna's walls, after all- but Rashid's reputation had preceded him. When I'd hired him for the week, he'd asked no questions, merely quoted his price and confirmed the schedule.

Professional. That was worth paying for.

I settled into the cushioned seat as Rashid called out to the camels, and the carriage lurched forward with a gentle sway. The streets of Alubarna rolled past the window- merchants already hawking their wares despite the early hour, children chasing each other between stalls, the eternal bustle of a capital city waking to another day.

The district gates passed overhead, solid and functional, their sandstone arches marking the boundary between Alubarna's administrative heart and its surrounding districts. Beyond them, the cityscape shifted.

I lit a cigar and watched the landscape transform.

The carriage rolled through Alubarna's streets at a steady pace, moving from the commercial districts toward the administrative heart where the palace stood. We passed through neighborhoods of varying wealth- craftsmen's quarters with their workshops open to the street, merchant homes with their shuttered windows and private courtyards, then the broader avenues where government officials and nobility kept their residences.

The road was well-maintained here, smooth stone rather than packed earth. Other carriages passed by infrequently, some flying noble crests, others plain like mine. Alabasta's administrative lifeblood flowed along these streets, and everyone knew it.

Which made even short journeys targets for the desperate or stupid.

I almost groaned when my Observation Haki prickled- a dozen presences converging from side streets and alleys, spreading out to block the road ahead.

I didn't move. Didn't call out to Rashid. Just took another drag from my cigar and waited.

The ambush was textbook amateur hour: too many bodies, too much noise, too eager to reveal themselves. They emerged from between buildings in a rush, weapons drawn and faces covered with ragged cloth. Twelve men, maybe thirteen. Mix of swords, clubs, and a few rusted firearms that looked like they'd explode if fired.

Rashid pulled the camels to a halt, his voice tight with controlled fear. "Stay calm, honored passenger. I'll handle—"

"Don't bother." I didn't look up from my cigar. "They're already dead."

One of the bandits- their leader, judging by the slightly better sword and louder voice- strode forward with the swagger of a man who'd done this before and lived.

"Out of the carriage!" He punctuated the command by slamming his blade against the wooden frame. "Noble carriages mean noble gold, and we're collecting today's taxes!"

I exhaled smoke through my nose, watching it curl against the window.

Noble carriage. Idiots.

"Last chance!" The bandit chief's voice cracked slightly, bravado warring with uncertainty. "Out now, or we drag you—"

"Sables."

The word left my lips barely louder than a whisper.

Sand peeled off me, unraveling into streams of gold and beige that poured through the carriage window like smoke. The grains spread wide, multiplying as I generated more, feeding the flow until a cloud of my own substance gathered in the air outside.

Then I compressed it. Spun it. Commanded it.

The tornado formed in an instant, tight and controlled, a whirling pillar of pressurized sand that erupted from the seemingly empty air beside the carriage. Every grain was mine, generated from my body and responding to my will with absolute precision.

The bandits had maybe half a second to process what they were seeing before it struck.

Bodies flew. Weapons scattered. Screams cut short as the concentrated storm swept through their formation, lifting grown men and hurling them against walls and cobblestones. The sand scoured exposed skin, ripped cloth, and sent consciousness fleeing before overwhelming force.

I sat perfectly still in my seat, cigar still between my teeth, watching through the window as my sand did its work.

Five seconds. Maybe less.

When I released the technique, the sand dispersed, some falling to the street, some flowing back through the window to rejoin my body with seamless ease. The street was clear save for the scattered bodies lying unconscious across the cobblestones.

None dead, which had been the point. I wasn't interested in adding corpses to Alubarna's streets. Just sending a message.

Choose your targets more carefully.

I took another drag from my cigar, savoring the burn as the last grains of sand settled back into the folds of my coat.

Rashid hadn't moved. His hands were still locked on the reins, knuckles white, eyes wide and locked on the devastation outside. When he finally turned to look at me through the small window separating driver from passenger, his expression was a fascinating mix of terror and awe.

"Sir Crocodile..." His voice came out hoarse. "That was—you just—"

"Saved us some time." I flicked ash down to the carriage floor, watching it drift down to join its countless siblings. "The palace, Rashid. We're expected, and I dislike being late."

He swallowed hard, nodded once, and snapped the reins with shaking hands.

The camels, bless them, were either too well-trained or too stupid to care about the supernatural violence that had just occurred. They simply leaned into their harnesses and resumed walking, hooves crunching over sand that moments ago had been a weapon.

I settled back into my seat, watching the buildings roll past.

Behind us, the bandits would wake eventually- bruised, battered, and with a story they'd tell in taverns for years. About the carriage that didn't need guards, and the man inside who commanded the desert itself.

Let them tell it. Let the story spread.

By the time I finished my business with Cobra, I wanted every criminal within the capital to know exactly what happened when they crossed my path.

The palace appeared on the horizon thirty minutes later, its white stone walls gleaming like a mirage against the endless gold of sand and sky.

Rashid pulled up to the main gates without incident this time, and palace guards in crisp uniforms approached with the kind of professional courtesy reserved for dangerous guests they couldn't turn away.

One of them- a captain, judging by the slightly fancier uniform- stepped forward and bowed with mechanical precision.

"Sir Crocodile. His Majesty King Cobra awaits you in the throne room. If you'll follow me?"

I stepped down from the carriage, boots hitting stone with a solid thunk. The palace loomed above, all elegant architecture and carefully maintained power.

"Lead the way."

The Captain nodded and turned, and I followed him through gates that had stood for centuries, into the heart of Alabasta's power.

Time to see if a king and a pirate can find common ground.

Behind me, Rashid watched with the expression of a man for whom it just clicked that he'd been sitting three feet away from a natural disaster in human form.

I made a mental note to tip him well.

​

---

The palace grounds were a study in controlled opulence.

We passed through the outer gates into a courtyard where fountains- actual fountains, in a desert kingdom- splashed water into marble basins shaped like lotus flowers. Palm trees provided shade over meticulously maintained gardens, and servants in crisp livery moved with practiced efficiency between buildings.

The Captain led me through it all with the same mechanical precision he'd displayed at the gate, boots clicking against polished stone. We crossed a bridge over a decorative canal, passed beneath an archway carved with protective symbols, and entered what was clearly the palace proper.

The temperature dropped immediately. Thick walls and clever architecture kept the interior blessedly cool, and the sudden relief from the desert heat was almost jarring.

We were maybe halfway down a long corridor, walls decorated with tapestries depicting Alabasta's history, when a figure emerged from a side passage ahead.

Chaka.

I recognized him immediately. One of Alabasta's two guardian deities, the Jackal. A Zoan user, powerful, loyal to a fault, and currently looking at me like I was a scorpion that had crawled into his king's bedroom.

The captain stopped and bowed. "Guardian Chaka. Sir Crocodile, as requested."

Chaka's sharp and assessing eyes swept over me once before he nodded curtly. "I'll take it from here, Captain. Return to your post."

The captain saluted and departed without a word, leaving me alone with a man who clearly wished I was anywhere else.

"Sir Crocodile." Chaka's voice was clipped, professional, but cold enough to frost glass. "His Majesty is waiting. Follow me."

He turned without waiting for acknowledgement and began walking. Not quite rude enough to be openly hostile, but making it clear this wasn't a friendly escort.

I followed, boots echoing against marble as we moved deeper into the palace.

"Pleasant weather we're having," I offered after a moment, more to see how he'd react than any real interest in small talk.

"Indeed." Flat. Emotionless. The conversational equivalent of a brick wall.

I smiled slightly and let the silence stretch.

We passed more guards, all watching me with the same wary professionalism, and climbed a wide staircase that curved upward with elegant precision. More tapestries. More history. Alabasta had been a power for centuries, and the palace made sure visitors never forgot it.

Chaka stopped before a set of massive doors, each one carved with intricate reliefs of desert animals and ancient symbols. He knocked twice- solid, authoritative sounds that echoed through the corridor.

"Enter." The voice from within was calm, measured, carrying the weight of authority without needing to shout.

Chaka pushed the doors open and stepped aside, gesturing me forward with a terseness that suggested he'd rather be gesturing me off a cliff.

"Sir Crocodile, Your Majesty."

I stepped through.

​

---

The throne room was exactly what you'd expect from a desert kingdom with money and taste: high ceilings, white marble columns, windows designed to let in light while keeping out heat. Banners bearing Alabasta's crest hung from the walls, and the floor was polished stone that reflected everything like dark water.

At the far end, elevated on a dais, sat King Nefertari Cobra.

He was younger than the version I remembered from the manga: mid-thirties, maybe, without the grey that would eventually streak his hair. But the bearing was the same: dignified, thoughtful, the kind of presence that commanded respect without demanding it.

To his right stood Pell, the other guardian deity. The Falcon. His expression was marginally less hostile than Chaka's, but only marginally. Both men were positioned to intervene if I made any sudden moves.

Flanking the throne were three men in stuffy looking official robes- advisors, clearly. Legal minds brought to witness whatever arrangement might be struck here. One of them was taking notes, quill scratching against parchment.

I walked forward, my coat dragging slightly behind me, cigar smoke trailing upward in lazy spirals. The click of my boots against marble was the only sound in the room.

I stopped at what felt like an appropriate distance- close enough to be respectful, far enough not to seem threatening- and inclined my head slightly. Not a bow, but an acknowledgment.

"Your Majesty. Thank you for the invitation."

Cobra studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he gestured to a chair that had been placed at the base of the dais.

"Please, Sir Crocodile. Sit."

I settled into the chair with deliberate ease, crossing one leg over the other and taking a slow drag from my cigar. Playing it relaxed. Confident but not aggressive.

Cobra leaned forward slightly, fingers steepled before him.

"You've been active in Alubarna recently," he began, his tone diplomatic but probing. "Clearing out criminal elements. Protecting merchants. Making quite the impression on my citizens."

"Someone needed to." I exhaled smoke through my nose. "Your city has a pirate problem. I simply addressed it."

"Without consulting local authorities. Without coordination with my guard." His voice remained calm, but there was steel underneath. "You understand why that might concern me."

"I understand completely." I tapped ash into a small tray one of the advisors had wisely had a servant rush to place beside the chair. "A foreign Warlord operating independently in your capital could be seen as either protection or provocation, depending on one's perspective."

"And which is it?"

I met his gaze directly. "That depends on what you'd prefer it to be, Your Majesty."

Silence stretched between us. Cobra's expression didn't change, but I saw the subtle shift in his posture- interest, cautious but genuine.

"Explain."

I took another drag, organizing my thoughts. This was the pitch. The moment that would set the tone for everything that followed.

"The world has changed since Roger's execution," I began, keeping my voice measured. "The Great Pirate Era isn't a wave, it's a tide, and it's still rising. Paradise is flooded with crews looking to make names for themselves. Most are incompetent, but the competent ones are dangerous. And they all need to pass through kingdoms like yours to reach the New World."

One of the advisors shifted uncomfortably. Cobra remained still, listening.

"Alabasta is wealthy," I continued. "Trade routes, resources, strategic position. That makes you a target. Your guard is competent, but they're stretched thin protecting a kingdom this size. You've already seen the increase in pirate activity along your coasts. It's only going to get worse."

"And you're offering to help out of the goodness of your heart?" There was the faintest hint of dry amusement in Cobra's voice.

I smiled, sharp and honest. "I'm offering to help because our interests align, Your Majesty. I have no desire to see Alabasta destabilized. Chaos is bad for business, and I prefer stable operating environments."

"Operating environments." Pell spoke for the first time, his voice hard. "You make it sound like a commercial venture."

"Because it is." I turned my attention to him briefly before looking back at Cobra. "I'm not pretending to be a hero, Guardian Pell. I'm a pragmatist. Alabasta benefits from security, and I benefit from having a stable base of operations. Simple exchange of value."

"What exactly are you proposing?" Cobra asked, his tone carefully neutral.

"A loose alliance." I leaned forward slightly, holding his gaze. "I'll handle the undesirables- pirates, smugglers, anyone causing problems for your kingdom. I'll do it quietly, efficiently, and with minimal disruption to your citizens. In exchange, you grant me operational freedom in a city of my choosing. Somewhere I can establish a presence, conduct business, and exist without constant oversight."

"What kind of business?" One of the advisors, a thin, nervous-looking man spoke up.

"Legitimate enterprise. Trade, hospitality, security consultation. Nothing that would embarrass the crown or violate your laws." I paused deliberately. "Of course, having a Warlord operating openly in your kingdom sends a message to other pirates. Free deterrent, if you will."

Cobra's fingers tapped against the armrest of his throne, a subtle tell that he was considering the offer seriously.

"And if we refuse?"

I shrugged, the movement casual. "Then I continue doing what I've been doing- operating independently, handling threats as I see them, and hoping our paths don't cross inconveniently. But I'd prefer cooperation. Cleaner for everyone involved."

The unspoken threat hung in the air like my smoke: I'm already here. You can work with me or work around me, but you can't ignore me.

Chaka's hand moved fractionally toward his weapon. Pell's eyes narrowed. But Cobra's expression remained thoughtful, calculating.

"Which city?" he asked finally.

"I haven't decided yet." A careful lie. "Somewhere with commercial potential. Somewhere that benefits from additional security. I'd want to survey options before making a final choice, naturally."

"Naturally." Cobra leaned back, studying me with those shrewd eyes. "And this arrangement. How long would it last?"

"As long as it remains mutually beneficial." I met his gaze steadily. "I'm not looking to put down roots permanently, Your Majesty. But while I'm here, I'd prefer we understand each other."

Another long silence. Then Cobra looked to his advisors, a subtle gesture that invited their input.

The thin one leaned in, whispering rapidly. The second advisor- older, calmer- murmured something that made Cobra nod slightly. The third simply watched me with the expression of a man trying to calculate acceptable losses.

Finally, Cobra raised a hand, silencing them.

"Your proposal has merit, Sir Crocodile. But I'll need specifics before agreeing to anything. Which city you're considering, what kind of operations you intend to run, assurances that your presence won't destabilize local governance."

"Reasonable requests." I stood smoothly, taking it as the dismissal it was. "I'll prepare a formal proposal and submit it through proper channels. In the meantime, I'll continue my current activities… unless you'd prefer otherwise?"

"Continue." Cobra's voice was firm. "But understand, Sir Crocodile: Alabasta tolerates your presence because of your status and your actions thus far. But tolerance is not carte blanche. Step outside acceptable bounds and, Warlord or not, you'll answer for it."

I smiled, genuine respect flickering beneath the calculated confidence.

"I wouldn't expect anything less, Your Majesty."

I turned to leave, then paused, glancing back over my shoulder.

"One more thing. There were a couple bandits who attacked my carriage on the way here. They're alive but unconscious on Merchant's Avenue. You might want to collect them before they wake up and embarrass your city guard further."

Cobra's expression didn't change, but I caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Amusement, maybe. Or exasperation.

"Thank you for the information. Chaka will see you out."

The Jackal stepped forward, his expression still cold but perhaps fractionally less hostile than before. Or maybe I was imagining it.

I followed him back through the corridors, past the guards and tapestries and carefully maintained power, until we reached the courtyard that led to the palace gates.

Chaka stopped at the threshold, turning to face me one final time.

"The King is a good man," he said quietly, voice still clipped but carrying weight. "Don't make me regret not killing you where you stood."

I met his gaze, cigar smoke curling between us.

"I'd prefer you didn't have to, Guardian Chaka. Makes for awkward working relationships."

He stared at me for another long moment, then turned and walked back into the palace without another word.

I was halfway across the courtyard, boots clicking against stone as I made my way back toward the outer gates, when I heard it.

A child's laughter, high and bright, echoing off the palace walls.

Then rapid footsteps- small ones, running.

I turned just in time to see a blur of blue hair and white fabric come tearing around a corner, tiny legs pumping with the single-minded determination only children possess. She couldn't have been more than two years old, arms outstretched as she chased something I couldn't immediately see.

A butterfly. White wings with blue spots, fluttering just out of reach.

The girl- Vivi, I realized with a jolt- was so focused on her quarry that she didn't notice me standing in her path until she was three steps away.

She skidded to a halt, sandals scraping against stone, and looked up.

And up.

And up.

Her eyes- wide and impossibly blue- met mine, and for a moment we simply stared at each other. Me, the notorious pirate Warlord with a reputation for violence. Her, a toddler princess who'd just discovered a very tall obstacle in her butterfly-hunting expedition.

I waited for the fear. The tears. The running away.

Instead, she tilted her head, curiosity replacing surprise.

"You're tall," she announced, her voice carrying that absolute confidence small children have when stating obvious facts.

I blinked. "I am."

"Are you a giant?"

"No."

"Oh." She considered this, then pointed at my hook. "What's that?"

"A hook."

"Why?"

"Because my hand isn't there anymore."

"Why?"

I opened my mouth, then closed it. How exactly did one explain the sordid violence involved in losing a limb to a two-year-old?

"Accident," I settled on.

"Oh." She nodded sagely, as if this explained everything. Then she pointed at the cigar between my teeth. "That smells bad."

Despite myself, I felt a small smile tug at my lips. "It does."

"Then why—"

"Princess Vivi!"

A woman's voice, high and panicked, cut through the courtyard. A moment later, a middle-aged woman in servant's clothing came hurrying around the same corner Vivi had emerged from, her face flushed with exertion and worry.

Igaram's wife. His suspiciously similar looking wife. Terracotta, though most called her Terra.

She spotted Vivi standing before me and went pale, her steps faltering before maternal instinct overrode fear and she rushed forward.

"Princess, you mustn't run off like that! And bothering the honored guest—" She reached for Vivi's hand, bowing hastily to me. "My deepest apologies, Sir Crocodile. The princess is very spirited and—"

"It's fine." I waved my hand dismissively. "No harm done."

Vivi, seemingly oblivious to the tension radiating from her caretaker, was still staring at me with that intense, unblinking curiosity children have when they've found something fascinating.

"Are you a pirate?" she asked suddenly.

Terracotta made a strangled sound. "Princess—"

"I was," I said, cutting through the woman's panic. "Now I work for the Government."

"Oh." Vivi processed this. "Do you have a ship?"

"I do."

"Can I see it?"

"Vivi!" The lady's voice cracked with mortification. "You cannot simply invite yourself onto—"

"Maybe when you're older," I said, surprising myself with the answer. I crouched down, ignoring the way my coat scraped fully against the ground and put myself closer to her eye level. "For now, you should probably listen to your minder and stay where you're supposed to be."

Vivi's expression turned mutinous. "But the butterfly—"

"Will still be there tomorrow." I reached out with my good hand, patting her head once. Her hair was soft, still baby-fine. "And you'll be faster tomorrow. Better odds."

She brightened immediately, that mercurial emotional shift only children manage. "Really?"

"Really." I straightened, the movement fluid despite the bulk of my coat. "Now go. Before your father sends his guards looking for you."

Terracotta grabbed Vivi's hand with obvious relief, bowing again. "Thank you for your patience, Sir Crocodile. Come along, Princess."

"Bye, tall pirate man!" Vivi waved enthusiastically as she was led away, her earlier mission apparently forgotten.

I watched them go, Terracotta muttering worried admonishments while Vivi chattered about butterflies and ships and whether giants were real.

When they disappeared back into the palace, I turned and continued toward the gates.

Something tight had formed in my chest- an emotion I couldn't quite name. Protectiveness, maybe. Or regret for a future that would've come to pass. In the original timeline, Crocodile had tried to kill this kingdom. Had manipulated events to destroy everything that little girl would grow up to love.

Not this time.

Not this time.

I stepped through the outer gates into the streets beyond, where Rashid waited with the carriage.

"Everything alright, sir?" he asked, noting something in my expression.

I climbed into the carriage, settling into my seat with a long exhale.

"Fine. Just remembering something."

"Sir?"

"Nothing important." I pulled out a fresh cigar, lighting it with practiced ease. "The hotel, Rashid. I have work to do."

As the carriage rolled forward and the palace disappeared behind us, I couldn't quite shake the image of wide blue eyes and innocent curiosity.

I allowed myself a small smile.

First move made. Now let's see how the game plays out.

​

---

The hotel room was exactly as I'd left it; curtains half-drawn, the faint scent of tobacco lingering in the air, the ceiling fan turning its lazy circles overhead. I shrugged off my coat, draping it over the back of the couch, and moved to the balcony window.

Alubarna sprawled below, golden and alive in the afternoon sun.

I'd done it. Made first contact with Cobra, established parameters for cooperation, and walked out of the palace with more freedom than I'd entered with. All because of four little words: Warlord of the Sea.

The title was a marvel of political engineering when you thought about it.

I pulled out a fresh cigar, lighting it as I leaned against the balcony doorframe. The meeting with Cobra played back through my mind- his careful questions, his measured responses, the way he'd listened despite clearly having reservations. Any other pirate would have been arrested on sight, or at minimum denied audience entirely. But because I wore the Government's seal, because I'd been given legitimacy by the World Government itself, Cobra had to treat me as something between threat and ally.

The leverage was absurd.

I could walk into a kingdom's capital, kill criminals in its streets, and the local monarch had to consider my proposal instead of simply throwing me out. The Government had essentially created a class of pirates who operated with impunity as long as they didn't cause too much trouble. And the kingdoms? They had to accept it, because refusing a Warlord meant potentially antagonizing the very organization that was supposed to protect them.

Brilliant. Cynical. Effective.

I took a long drag, exhaling smoke into the desert air.

The freedom was intoxicating. No Marine patrols harassing me. No bounty hunters trying their luck. No constant need to hide or fight my way through Government blockades. I could conduct business openly, make deals with legitimate authorities, and build something stable instead of constantly fleeing the next crisis.

This, I realized, was why Crocodile had kept the title even after establishing Baroque Works. The prestige was useful, but the freedom was invaluable. You could accomplish so much more when you weren't constantly looking over your shoulder for Marine battleships.

Of course, it came with strings. Responding to summons, occasionally dealing with threats the Government didn't want to handle directly, maintaining at least a veneer of cooperation. But those were acceptable costs for the latitude it provided.

And I intended to use every bit of that latitude.

I turned from the balcony and moved back into the room, settling onto the couch. The meeting had gone well, but it had also crystallized something I'd been dancing around since arriving in this world: I needed to make a decision. A real one, not just vague plans and theoretical strategies.

Where was I going to build?

The question seemed simple on its surface, but the implications sprawled out like weed roots in the sand. The city I chose would shape everything that followed- what kind of organization I could build, what kind of relationships I'd forge, what kind of future I was committing to.

I'd narrowed it down to two options days ago, but now, fresh from negotiating with a king, the weight of the choice pressed down with new urgency.

Nanohana or Rainbase.

I stood, pacing the length of the room as I worked through it again. Sometimes thinking required motion.

Nanohana was the obvious choice in many ways. The port city was Alabasta's primary gateway to the outside world- every ship, every cargo, every whisper from beyond the kingdom's borders passed through those docks first. Control Nanohana, and you controlled information. You controlled trade routes. You had your finger on the pulse of everything entering or leaving the kingdom.

It was also relatively cosmopolitan by Alabasta's standards. Foreign merchants, sailors from a dozen different nations, a constant flow of new faces that would make it easier to blend operations into the background noise of legitimate commerce. I could establish a shipping company, a trading house, something that generated real, sustainable income while providing cover for less legitimate activities.

The infrastructure was already there too. Warehouses, established trade networks, connections to markets across Paradise and beyond. I wouldn't be building from scratch so much as inserting myself into an existing ecosystem.

I paused at the window, watching a merchant caravan pass below.

But Nanohana had one critical flaw: visibility.

The Marines watched port cities like hawks. Not constantly, not oppressively, but they were there. Regular patrols, customs inspections, the occasional anti-smuggling operation. As a Warlord, I'd be tolerated, even welcomed in some circles. But everything I did would be noted, filed away, added to some bureaucrat's report that eventually made its way up the chain of command.

That kind of scrutiny was manageable, but it was constraining. And it meant I'd always be operating with one eye on the Government, making sure I didn't cross invisible lines that shifted with political winds.

Then there was the local power structure. Nanohana had money, which meant it had entrenched interests. Merchant guilds, shipping magnates, families who'd controlled the docks for generations. They wouldn't welcome a pirate- Warlord or not- muscling into their territory. I'd spend months, maybe years, navigating local politics and power struggles before I could actually accomplish anything meaningful.

Exhausting. Inefficient.

I resumed pacing.

Rainbase, on the other hand...

Rainbase was a different beast entirely.

The City of Dreams, they called it. Built on vice, gambling, and the eternal human desire to believe that fortune could change with the roll of dice. It wasn't quite lawless- Cobra's authority extended there the same as anywhere else in Alabasta- but it was loose. The kind of place where authorities looked the other way as long as taxes got paid and violence stayed contained.

The city's entire economy revolved around separating fools from their money, which meant the power structure was fluid. Whoever had the biggest casino, the best shows, the most reliable games- they ran Rainbase. There was no old money blocking my path, no ancient merchant families whose approval I'd need. Just entrepreneurs and criminals, all competing for the same pool of desperate gamblers and thrill-seekers.

I could work with that.

More than that, I could dominate that. Build the biggest, most luxurious casino Rainbase had ever seen, and suddenly I'd be the center of gravity around which the entire city orbited. Money would flow directly to me instead of through layers of middlemen and intermediaries. And the kind of people drawn to gambling dens- criminals, merchants with shady connections, information brokers, desperate souls with secrets to sell- they'd all come to my door voluntarily.

The Marine presence was minimal too. Oh, they had a token office, a handful of officers who collected bribes and pretended to maintain order. But they didn't care about Rainbase the way they cared about ports and trade routes. As long as piracy stayed off the coasts and gambling stayed in the city, they were content to let Alabasta handle its own internal affairs.

Freedom. Real freedom, not just the licensed kind the Warlord title provided.

But Rainbase had its own problems.

I stopped at the desk, running my fingers along the wood grain.

The city's economy was inherently volatile. Gambling booms and busts, winners and losers, fortunes made and lost overnight. Building something stable on that foundation would be like constructing a palace on shifting sand- possible, but requiring constant attention and adjustment.

And the very lawlessness that made it attractive also made it dangerous. Rainbase attracted exactly the kind of people who'd challenge a new power trying to establish itself. Rival casino owners, criminal syndicates, ambitious upstarts who saw me as either competition or opportunity. I'd spend my first year fighting off challengers and establishing dominance through force as much as business acumen.

Then there was the reputational cost. Alubarna was respectable, Nanohana was commercial, but Rainbase was vice. Planting my flag there would color how people saw me, how Cobra saw me. It would be harder to maintain the "reformed pirate" angle when I was running what was essentially a glorified den of sin.

Not impossible, just harder.

I pulled out a chair and sat, doing my best imitation of steepling my fingers as I stared at nothing in particular.

Two cities. Two futures.

Nanohana offered stability, legitimacy, and access to global trade. It was the smart choice for someone planning to build a lasting commercial empire.

Rainbase offered freedom, immediate cash flow, and the kind of controlled chaos where a man with ambition could rise fast.

What did I need more?

I thought about the timeline I was working against. Fourteen years until Luffy set sail. Fourteen years until everything I knew from canon started moving like clockwork toward its inevitable crescendo. That sounded like a lot of time, but it wasn't. Not when I needed to build an organization, recruit key personnel, secure resources, and somehow position myself to survive what was coming.

I needed fast growth. Needed to establish power quickly enough to matter but carefully enough to avoid drawing the wrong kind of attention. Nanohana's steady, respectable growth was attractive, but it was also slow. I'd spend years laying groundwork before I could leverage it into real influence.

Rainbase was faster. Riskier, but faster.

And there was another factor I kept coming back to: narrative weight.

In the original timeline, Crocodile had chosen Rainbase for his base of operations. He'd built Rain Dinners into the crown jewel of the city, used it as cover for Baroque Works, turned it into a symbol of his power. There was a reason he'd made that choice- the city's structure aligned perfectly with the kind of operation he wanted to run.

I wasn't planning to follow his exact playbook, but some elements were worth preserving. Rainbase worked as a base of operations. It had proven itself viable even if the endgame had been flawed.

Besides, there was a certain poetic symmetry to it. Taking the same location but using it for different purposes. Proving that the problem wasn't the foundation, but what had been built on top of it.

I stood again, moving back to the balcony. The sun was lower now, painting everything in deeper shades of amber.

I had to decide.

I could play it safe, choose Nanohana, build slowly and carefully with minimal risk. Or I could embrace the chaos of Rainbase, move fast, and trust my knowledge and abilities to navigate the turbulence.

Safe versus fast.

Legitimate versus free.

I took a long drag from my cigar, letting the smoke fill my lungs before exhaling slowly.

Fuck it.

Rainbase. It had to be Rainbase.

Not because it was the smart choice- though it had merits- but because it was the right choice for what I needed to accomplish. I needed cash flow now, not three years from now. I needed freedom to operate without constant oversight. I needed a power base that could grow quickly enough to matter when things started accelerating.

And honestly? Part of me wanted to prove I could take the same foundation Crocodile had used and build something better. Something that didn't end with me face-down in the sand, everything I'd worked for crumbling to dust.

The decision settled into my chest like a weight finding its proper place.

Rainbase. The City of Dreams.

I'd make it my City of Power instead.

Besides…

Becoming a Casino Mogul? There was certainly worse ways to spend a few years.

​

---

I settled onto the couch, letting my head fall back against the cushions. The weight of the day pressed down- the meeting with Cobra, the decisions made, the money about to be committed. My eyes drifted closed, not quite sleeping but not fully awake either, hovering in that liminal space where thought becomes hazy and formless.

My breathing slowed without conscious effort, deepening into a rhythm that felt almost meditative.

In that state, it was just all too easy to feel.

The maid two rooms over, her presence a small, nervous flutter as she changed linens. Below me, the hotel staff moved through their routines, their presences filtering through my consciousness like distant music. Cleaning, cooking, managing the endless small tasks that kept a luxury establishment running.

I'd been using Observation Haki instinctively since arriving in this body- feeling presences, sensing danger- but this was different. This wasn't echoes of a forgotten instinct. This was my awareness reaching out on its own, spreading like water finding its level.

My eyes opened slightly, and I stared at the ceiling with new understanding.

I'd never really focused on it before. Never tried to push its limits or understand its full scope.

Now seemed like a good time to start.

I closed my eyes again, this time deliberately, and reached out with purpose. Past the maids and the staff in my immediate vicinity.

I pushed my awareness further, testing the boundaries. The street outside came into focus- not visually, but as a tapestry of presences woven together. Merchants hawking wares, their emotions bleeding through as ambient frustration and hope. Children playing, bright sparks of uncontained energy. A pair of guards on patrol, their presences more disciplined, controlled. I could feel the shape of them, the texture of their intent. The guard on the left was bored, going through motions. The one on the right was alert, scanning for threats out of genuine concern rather than obligation.

Two blocks. Three. The presences became fuzzier at distance, less distinct, but still perceptible. A fight breaking out in an alley- two presences clashing, anger spiking like fever. A couple arguing in their home, emotions sharp and cutting. An old man sitting alone, his presence so still and quiet it was almost invisible.

Then I hit a wall. Not a physical barrier, but a limit. My awareness couldn't stretch any further without losing coherence entirely. Four blocks, maybe five at most when actively focusing. I pulled back, letting the awareness contract until it settled into a comfortable radius. This natural sphere of perception extended maybe a block in all directions- close enough to be immediately useful without requiring active concentration.

Room for improvement, but not bad.

I opened my eyes, exhaling slowly. The room snapped back into sharp focus, but I could still feel the people beyond those walls, still sense them moving through their lives.

Another tool in the arsenal. Another advantage.

I moved to the desk and pulled out paper and ink. Time for a less mystical sort of taking stock.

First things first, I had to acknowledge the situation I had found myself in.

My finances aren't as healthy as I'd like.

Crocodile had accumulated roughly three hundred million Berries through villainy and various pirate ventures over the years, with another sixty million tied up in investments and holdings scattered across Paradise. Liquid assets that could be deployed almost immediately.

I wrote the number down, then immediately crossed it out and wrote what mattered more: the costs.

Rain Dinners could eat hundred to two hundred million just for construction and initial outfitting, maybe more. That wasn't counting staff, security, supplies, or the bribes that kept operations smooth in a place like Rainbase.

I stared at the number, frowning.

Building Rain Dinners from the ground up was a mistake. Not the casino itself- that was still essential- but starting there was putting the cart before the horse. I'd be bleeding money for a year or more, operating on fumes while trying to establish myself in a city I barely understood. No cash flow, no personnel, no infrastructure. Just an expensive hole in the ground and a target on my back from every established power in Rainbase who'd see a Warlord muscling into their territory.

Stupid. Inefficient.

And more than that- shortsighted.

Rain Dinners was meant to be the crown jewel, the iconic establishment that people thought of when they heard my name. But it was never supposed to be the only jewel. I wanted more than a single casino in a desert city. I wanted an empire.

I wanted Rainbase itself.

Not through conquest or open rule- that would bring too much attention, invite too much interference. But through economic dominance. Entertainment capital of Paradise. The place where pirates and merchants and nobles came to spend their fortunes, where money flowed like water and every vice had a price. The Las Vegas of this world. A hot spot even more acclaimed than the Gran Tesoro.

And I would be the power behind it all. The final boss at the top of the pyramid, with Rain Dinners as my palace.

But you didn't build an empire by constructing a palace first and hoping the kingdom grew around it. You built the kingdom first, piece by piece, until the palace became inevitable.

I needed a different approach.

I set down the pen and leaned back, thinking. Rainbase wasn't some frontier town waiting for development- it was an established market with existing businesses, existing networks, existing cash flows. Gambling dens, brothels, entertainment venues, merchant operations. Small to mid-level enterprises that were already profitable, already staffed, already integrated into the city's ecosystem.

Why build from nothing when I could acquire what already worked?

The idea settled into place with satisfying logic. Take over existing businesses. Not through obvious force- that would unite opposition against me- but through leverage. Debt, protection, strategic pressure. Find owners who were struggling, overextended, or vulnerable to the right kind of persuasion. Make them offers they couldn't refuse, or shouldn't refuse if they were smart.

Integrate them into my organization, keep the original management in place where competent. Use their expertise, their connections, their understanding of Rainbase's market. And most importantly, use their cash flow to fund the real prize.

Rain Dinners wouldn't be built on my money alone. It would be built on theirs. And when it opened, it wouldn't be competing with other establishments- it would be the flagship of a network that already controlled them.

I picked up the pen again, sketching out the revised approach. Start with reconnaissance- identify viable targets, businesses that were established enough to be valuable but vulnerable enough to acquire. Gambling halls would be priority; they aligned with the ultimate goal and generated reliable revenue. Entertainment venues second; they brought in crowds and information. Merchant operations third; they provided legitimate cover and trade connections.

With this approach, I'd obtain several key advantages. Operating capital without draining my own reserves. Experienced personnel already familiar with Rainbase's dynamics. A foothold in the local market before announcing bigger ambitions. Intelligence networks through existing customer bases and legitimate business fronts for less legitimate operations.

The previous owners- if I played this right- would become part of the foundation rather than obstacles. Keep them on as managers, give them stakes in the larger vision, make them invested in Rain Dinners' success because their own operations would feed into it. Some would resist, certainly. Those could be replaced. But most people, when offered a choice between ruin and partnership with a Warlord, I reckon would choose partnership.

I tapped the pen against my chin, considering timing. First spend a few weeks observing and identifying targets, understanding the local power structure. Then begin acquisitions, one at a time, careful not to move so fast it triggered organized resistance. Build quietly, consolidate carefully.

Each business I controlled was a brick in the foundation. And once I had enough bricks, once I controlled enough of Rainbase's entertainment and vice economy, Rain Dinners would rise as the inevitable culmination. Not an outsider's vanity project, but the crowning achievement of the city's most powerful figure.

And from there? Expand. Elevate. Transform Rainbase from a desert stopover into a destination. Attract bigger names, bigger money, bigger opportunities. Make it the kind of place where Emperors' crews came to blow off steam, where merchant princes negotiated deals, where information flowed as freely as alcohol.

Make it a place where my whispers at the top would transform into quakes throughout the city.

Because who would move against the man who controlled the economic heart of Paradise's most profitable vice city? The man every pirate, noble, and merchant depended on for their entertainment and secrets?

It would take patience. But I was ready. The original Crocodile had displayed phenomenal prowess in this virtue. Patience now meant power later. The kind of power that came from controlling the systems people couldn't live without.

My pen hovered over the paper as another thought struck me.

This approach solved the personnel problem too. I wouldn't need to recruit strangers or take chances on unknown quantities- not initially, anyway. The businesses I acquired would come with people who already knew their jobs, who understood Rainbase, who had connections I could exploit. If I found a gambling hall with a sharp floor manager? That's my casino operations specialist. A merchant operation with a clever accountant? That's my finance person. A brothel with enforcers who knew how to handle trouble quietly? That's my initial security team.

Quality would vary, certainly. Some would need to be replaced eventually. But it gave me a talent pool to draw from immediately, and time to identify who was worth keeping long-term.

And the beauty of it was legitimacy. Take over a few businesses, run them well, show that working with me was profitable? That made future recruitment easier. People would come to me, looking for opportunities, wanting to be part of something successful. The reputation would build itself.

Not as a pirate or a villain, but as a kingmaker. The man who made Rainbase matter.

I set down the pen finally, flexing my fingers as I looked over what I'd written. The timeline stretched across the page in surprisingly neat handwriting- phases, goals, contingencies. A roadmap that was ambitious but grounded in reality. More importantly, grounded in how things actually worked.

Money made money. Power consolidated power. Start small, build carefully, let momentum carry you toward bigger ambitions.

The sun had dipped lower while I'd been writing, the room growing dimmer. I stood, stretching until my spine popped, and moved to light the oil lamp on the desk. The warm glow pushed back the encroaching shadows, illuminating the papers spread before me.

I should have felt satisfied. The plan was sound- better than sound. It was methodical, sustainable, built on principles that actually worked rather than desperate gambits for ultimate power. This was how you built something that lasted.

But even as I thought it, doubt crept in at the edges.

Economic power was real power, yes. Control the money, control the flow of information and vice, and you controlled more than most pirates ever dreamed of. But it was also... soft. Indirect. The kind of power that worked right up until someone with bigger guns decided it didn't.

What happened when an Emperor's crew rolled into town and decided they didn't care about my economic networks? When the World Government decided my influence had grown too inconvenient? When some upstart with a Mythical Zoan and a grudge decided to challenge me?

I could be the richest, most connected man in Paradise, and still get crushed by someone with the raw strength to ignore everything I'd built.

The thought gnawed at me more than it should have. I was strong- very strong. A Logia user, a Warlord, someone who'd earned their reputation through violence and victory. But strength was relative in this world. There were monsters out there. Whitebeard. Kaido. Big Mom. Admirals who could reshape islands. And that was before accounting for whatever else lurked in the shadows- ancient weapons, lost kingdoms, the Abyss.

Economic dominance gave you influence. It gave you options, resources, leverage.

But it didn't give you the kind of overwhelming, undeniable force that made people think twice before even considering you as a target.

The kind of force that made you truly untouchable.

The pen started moving again in rhythm to my thoughts.

My hands shook with pressure, the letters growing heavier on the page even as my conscious attention remained fixed on the problem at work in my mind. Military assets. Force projection. Something to anchor the economic power with the kind of hard strength that couldn't be negotiated away.

Because in a world where bright-eyed teenagers could shatter carefully laid plans through sheer determination, raw ability isn't enough.

You needed mastery. Control. The kind of strength that didn't rely on tricks or loopholes.

What I need…

I looked down at the page at the figure my pen had scratched out.

PLUTON

The word stared back at me, written twice in heavy strokes. Circled. Underlined with such force the paper had nearly torn.

I hadn't even realized I'd been writing it.

… could the power of an Ancient Weapon.

My fingers traced the letters slowly, feeling the indentations in the paper. The ancient weapon. Sleeping somewhere beneath Wano's closed borders, if the original timeline held true. A battleship capable of destroying islands with a single shot. Power on a scale that made Devil Fruits look like parlor tricks.

Crocodile had been obsessed with it. Spent years hunting it, built his entire operation around the belief that Alabasta held the key to its location. Had convinced himself that possessing Pluton would solve everything- make him strong enough to challenge anyone, even the World Government itself. Strong enough that no one would ever dare touch him.

A country of unmatched military might. Utopia.

And where did that get him?

I should have been able to dismiss it easily. Crocodile's obsession had been his downfall, a single-minded fixation that blinded him to better options and more sustainable paths. I knew how that story ended- face-down in the sand, defeated by a teenager in a straw hat, all those carefully laid plans turning to ash.

I knew better. I was better.

And yet.

The appeal was still there, wasn't it? That seductive pull of absolute power. No more careful planning, no more building influence brick by brick, no more worrying about what happened when someone stronger came along. Just overwhelming, undeniable force. The kind of weapon that redrew the balance of power by its mere existence.

I could feel it in my chest- that same hunger he must have felt. Not quite my own, but not entirely foreign either. An echo of Crocodile's ambition resonating with something in me that wanted the certainty, the safety, the sheer finality that came with possessing something like Pluton.

It made sense, didn't it? All the economic power in the world didn't matter if you couldn't defend it. And what better defense than a weapon that could sink Marine fleets before they reached your shores? That could level Marineford if they ever decided you'd become too inconvenient? That made even Emperors think twice before testing you?

With Pluton, I wouldn't need to play political games or build influence networks. I could simply be the power that others had to account for.

The thought was intoxicating.

Also completely impractical.

I set the pen down deliberately, forcing my hand away from the paper. The weapon was in Wano- a country that had been closed off for decades, controlled by Kaido, a monstrous figure that would come to be known as the Strongest Creature in the World. Even if I could get there, even if I could locate it, I'd need the blueprints to operate it. Blueprints that were with Tom in Water 7, or would be passed to Franky eventually. And even if I somehow acquired both the weapon and the knowledge to use it, deploying it would paint the biggest target imaginable on my back.

The Five Elders didn't tolerate threats of that magnitude. They'd bring everything they had- Admirals, CP0, the full weight of their military might. And I was strong, yes, but not that strong. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

It was a fantasy. A powerful one, admittedly, but still a fantasy.

And yet I couldn't quite let go of it.

My eyes lingered on the word, on those heavy underlines. The rational part of my mind catalogued all the reasons it was a bad idea- the impracticality, the impossibility, the way it would derail every other plan I'd made. Building Rainbase into an economic powerhouse was achievable. Sustainable. It played to my strengths and the opportunities available.

Chasing Pluton was madness.

But god, the appeal of it.

I understood the original Crocodile better now, I think. That desperate hunger for something that would make him untouchable. He'd been defeated before- by Whitebeard, in a way that clearly left scars beyond the physical. And in a world of monsters, when you'd tasted defeat at the hands of the truly strong, the idea of possessing something that put you beyond their reach...

Yeah. I understood.

I pulled a fresh sheet of paper over, covering the one with Pluton written on it. Out of sight, if not quite out of mind.

I had to focus on what's achievable. The economic empire. The network of influence. Training until my Haki and Devil Fruit mastery put me in a league with the real powerhouses. Building something that lasted not through overwhelming force, but through being too valuable, too connected, too entrenched to uproot.

That was the smart play.

But even as I organized my notes, preparing to turn in for the night, I didn't throw away the paper underneath. Didn't cross out the word or tear it up. Instead, I slid it into the stack with the others, filed away with my timelines and acquisition targets.

Shelved, but not forgotten.

Because maybe there was a middle ground. Maybe, years from now, when I'd built everything else, when I was strong enough and connected enough and positioned properly... maybe then it would be worth revisiting. Not as a desperate gamble, but as the final piece. The ultimate insurance policy for everything I'd built.

The thought settled something in my chest- acknowledging the interest without letting it consume me. Yes, I wanted it. Yes, I could see the appeal, understand why the original had been so fixated. But I also had the perspective to recognize it for what it was: a long-term possibility, not an immediate solution.

First, build the foundation. Make myself indispensable. Create something that worked without needing ancient superweapons to sustain it.

And then, maybe, when the time was right...

I shook my head, forcing the thought away. That was a problem for future me. Present me had businesses to acquire and a city to conquer through more mundane means.

I lit a cigar and took an indulgent breath. Tomorrow I'd set out for Rainbase. See it with my own eyes. Begin the real work of building something that lasted.

But tonight, I allowed myself a moment of satisfaction. Two weeks in this world, and I'd already negotiated with a king as an equal, secured the beginnings of a legitimate operation, and charted a course that didn't rely on desperate gambles or doomed schemes.

I moved to the balcony, cigar in hand, and looked out over Alubarna. The sun had fully set now, the city transformed into a constellation of lamplight and shadow. Somewhere out there, Rainbase waited. My future empire, still unaware of what was coming.

The desert wind carried the scent of dust and distant spices. Dry against my skin. Serene.

I took a long drag from the cigar, letting the smoke curl into the night air.

"I have time."

For the first time since arriving in this body, in this world, I felt genuinely confident about that. Not the manic certainty of a man chasing impossible dreams, but the steady assurance of someone who knew exactly what they were building and how to get there.

It was a good feeling.

I took one last drag of the cigar, stubbed it out, and headed inside. Tomorrow would be a long day, and I'd need to be sharp for it.

The papers sat on the desk, plans and timelines and carefully calculated risks. I glanced at them one last time before extinguishing the lamp, letting darkness claim the room.

"To foundations," I murmured into the quiet. "May they prove stronger than sand."

Rainbase wouldn't know what hit it.

 

[King Yama]

Hello author long time no see hope you won't take so long to post an update again this fic is interesting can't wait to see what you will make of it

The plan to be an Underworld Emperor based in Paradise has merit I tell you that and also
glad that Crocodile recognised the Pluton Plan isn't that good but still keep it back of his mind as Plan B if he ever needs it also i wonder how are you going to increase your Mc strength beyond training are you going to spar with fellow Warlords and like hunt powerful rookies like Kidd and Ace when they started and as for the gold problem there's a solution but if you don't have luck then it's over I'm talking about Skypiea where the City of gold Shandora is located and potentially the lightning devil fruit too before Enel eats it and destroying Brika another sky island

 

[Twigtree]

Good job. Take your time to write something you enjoy. So far it is good. That he was rather kind to vivi was important to me.
Cheers
Also, your tag says selfinsert all together. Its separated even if there are a few fics without that separation too.

 

[Vine_sama]

Yes, it is still alive. No, I am not dead or abandoning it. Sorry for the late update, life's been life-ing.

Anyhoo! Here's chapter three. Read, review, rant and all that jazz. I continue to welcome constructive criticism.

Huge thanks to Wrighteous, dachdecker69, Lincoln859 and Forzarismo for beta-ing this chapter.

Enjoy.

​

---

Alubarna, Alabasta Kingdom, Grand Line.



I let the sun climb a good amount the next day before dialing Rashid up.

"Sir Crocodile." The man greeted, voice loud to make himself heard over the background of camels, donkeys, and horses braying and competing for attention. The eyestalks of the snail bent as he bowed from the other end. No doubt the man was at one of the stables, personally overseeing the care of his animals. "Do you require my services?"

"In a manner of speaking, yet not for our specific arrangement." I pulled out a cigar, lighting it with a distracted ease that was only half Crocodile's memories. I had grown accustomed to smoking them now, and found myself enjoying them- something I would never have seen myself doing. "I will be travelling to Rainbase for work related issues, and I'd rather not waste weeks on a carriage or hike through the mountains. What are my options for crossing the Sandora?"

The Den Den Mushi's eyes widened slightly. "Rainbase? That's quite the destination, sir." He paused, clearly weighing his words. "The Sandora River is the fastest route, certainly. There are passenger ships that make regular runs along the river; you'll be cutting across west to get to Rainbase from here. More comfortable than a carriage, faster too. You could arrive in two days if you left today."

"Passenger ships." I took a drag, considering. "What's the quality like?"

"Varies, sir. There are the budget ferries meant for common travelers. Crowded, basic accommodations, the sort. Then there are the mid-tier vessels. Cleaner, with private cabins available and decent meals." He hesitated, before continuing.

"You'd be hard pressed to see something befitting your station at the docks, though. Any rare instance of a luxurious vessel is almost certain to be private property of some noble."

I found myself smirking in amusement at his stilted words. Was this supposed to be an attempt at diplomacy?

"The mid-tier option, Rashid. Prioritise minimal interaction with other passengers. Can you arrange passage for tomorrow's morning departure?"

"I can, sir." The snail nodded.

"Good. Book me a cabin under my own name. I'll reimburse your troubles when you bring the ticket." I reclined in my chair and tapped ash from my cigar. "You'll handle moving my luggage to the docks too."

"Consider it done, sir." He replied without missing a beat. "I'll have everything arranged within the hour." He hesitated, then added, "If I may ask, sir, how long will you be in Rainbase? Should I arrange for a return passage as well?"

"No. I'll be staying for the foreseeable future." I waved my hand in dismissal, tilting my head to follow the motes of dust as they climbed to the ceiling.

"Ah… In that case, should I also arrange for a carriage to be waiting for you at the docks?"

My eyes snapped back down to the snail as I considered. I hadn't expected him to take the initiative to make such an offer. That was a bit surprising.

"That would be much appreciated." I took another drag from my cigar. "Go ahead."

"Very well, sir. Then I'll be—"

"One more thing, Rashid." I interrupted him. "You've been professional, reliable, and efficient. If I have need for transportation services in the future, I'll be calling on you specifically. Keep yourself available."

The snail's eyes bulged comically at my words and I found myself smiling. He couldn't have projected more surprise and cautious pleasure even if he tried.

"I-I'm honored, Sir Crocodile. You have only to send word." He stammered in thanks, and I hummed in response before reaching out to end the call.

That's one matter dealt with.

I let the plumes of white roll out of my mouth, mentally consulting my to-do list even as I dredged up another transponder number from the depths of my memory.

I still had important calls to make.

​

---

I settled more comfortably into my chair and pulled the Den Den Mushi closer, idly patting its brown shell as it lazily munched on the lettuce leaf, I'd left out for it. It was getting old, near on thirty years, if that saleswoman was to be believed. Another visit to the vet for routine checkup was due.

I dialed carefully, making sure I was inputting the right digits. The call connected after five rings, and when the voice came through, it sounded like it had been forced to gargle gravel.

"Yeah? Who's this?" The snail parroted. Its molluscan face tried to imitate what would have been a diagonal scar running from the middle of the forehead, across one eye, and down toward the cheekbone on the face of the person at the other end.

That was mildly interesting. He didn't have that before.

"Rafferty." I took a drag from my cigar, letting the name hang in the air for a moment. "It's Crocodile."

There was a beat of silence, then a sharp intake of breath.

"Croc? Crocodile? That you?" The voice shifted, gaining energy despite its roughness. "Holy shit, I haven't heard from you in... what's it been, eight years? Nine?" He paused, and I could hear the grin in his voice. "I hear you've been moving up in the world though. Congrats on the Warlord position. That's quite the career advancement from the West Blue days."

"Hn." I exhaled smoke toward the ceiling, acknowledging his felicitations with a grunt. "How's the circus life been treating you?"

Rafferty let out a bitter, self-deprecating chuckle. "Well, it's been... going. That's about the kindest way to put it."

"Bad days huh?" I was glad for that.

"We're managing." He sighed. "Currently we're over in the South Blue, actually. Kutsukku Island. Setting up to perform in one of the towns here, though 'setting up' is generous, more like scrambling to make sure the tent doesn't collapse and hoping enough people show up to cover the bribes we had to pay just to get performance permits."

Kutsukku Island… I took another drag as I narrowed my eyes in an effort to remember. I was fairly certain I'd heard the name before.

"Why? You asking for tourism advice? Because I gotta tell you, Croc, South Blue's scenery isn't much compared to Paradise. And the crowds certainly aren't."

"I'm asking," I intoned, voice deliberately flat with severity, "because I have a business proposal for you. One that will require relocating the entirety of your operations."

There was a lull. Then Rafferty's voice came back, cautious but curious.

"Relocating?" Rafferty repeated. "To where, exactly? And, if you don't mind me asking, why me?"

There was another pause, just long enough to be deliberate.

"We haven't spoken in nearly a decade, Croc. You've gone places since then. With your title and your connections, I'd have thought you could take your pick of entertainment outfits across the world. So, I'm curious ... what makes my little operation the one worth uprooting."

"Because I know what you're capable of." I rolled my cigar, watching the foot glow and dim. "You were always good at managing people, and moving goods and personnel without drawing unwanted attention. I need that skillset."

"Unwanted attention." He said it carefully, without inflection, understanding my meaning. "You're talking about the old days. When we used to work together on those shipping routes."

"Exactly." I leaned forward slightly. "I'm building something in Alabasta, Rafferty. An empire, piece by piece. Businesses people recognize. Places they're willing to spend their money in. And I need operators who know how to keep a show running even when conditions grow... unideal. That's why I called you."

"An empire?" His tone shifted, becoming more serious and interested. "That's ambitious. Even for you."

"Ambition isn't the issue," I said calmly. "Feasibility is. And you've seen what I have done with less."

"Is that what my circus is? Less?"

"It's what it's become. Not what it has to stay."

He hummed. "So? Where do I fit in all this?"

"You manage people effectively," I said. "Keep them fed, paid and loyal. The performances are of secondary importance. What matters is the system you've built to move men and equipment without friction,"

I locked eyes with the snail. "That structure, and your ability to command it, is what I want to buy."

Rafferty was quiet for a long moment, and I let him think. This was an important decision after all. When he spoke again, his voice carried a different quality- calculation mixed with what might have been hope.

"You've really built something out there, haven't you?" he said. "I heard the rumors. Saw your name in the papers. But becoming a Warlord…" He paused. "That isn't something you fall into. It takes planning. Commitment. Real capability."

I had, in truth, fallen into the position. There had been no grand design behind it, and the title itself had barely existed in legal capacity before I claimed it. But I didn't correct him. Letting him overestimate my competence and foresight cost me nothing, and benefited me in every way that mattered.

"It does."

"Which means if you're telling me you're building an empire, you're probably not blowing smoke," How ironic. I exhaled a plume of smoke with a speck of amusement.

He exhaled slowly. "Alright, Croc. I'm interested. More than interested actually. The circus isn't failing, but we're not exactly going anywhere new either. If you're offering a chance of something bigger, with stable backing and resources? That's worth considering seriously."

"So you accept then. Excellent. How soon can you move?"

"That's... more complicated." I heard the rustle of papers as he consulted his schedules. "We've got a ship, so transport isn't an issue. My Big Top is solid enough to make the Grand Line crossing. But we've got one more scheduled stop here in South Blue. The Samba Kingdom. Already promised their King a performance. Professional reputation matters, Croc. I can't just bail on a commitment."

"How long?"

"It'll take about a month to wrap things up here in South Blue and talk to the crew," he said. "I need to see which of my people are willing to make the journey. Some of them have families here, roots. Moving to Paradise isn't a small ask. After that, it'll still take time to reach the Grand Line, let alone Alabasta. Probably two months, all told."

I considered that. The timeframe was reasonable, even if it ran longer than I would have liked.

"That's acceptable. Finish your runs, determine who's willing to relocate, then make for the Grand Line. I trust that you'll be able to reach Alabasta without my assistance?"

There was a soft chuckle on the other end of the line.

"I can handle the basics," Rafferty replied. "Port fees, provisions, refits if they're needed. We've been moving from harbor to harbor for years now, this won't be our first long haul."

His tone shifted, becoming more measured.

"That said," he continued, "if you're inclined to make a few calls ahead of us, smooth things over with the right people… I wouldn't turn that down. A ship like ours draws attention at times. Less of it would make the journey a lot more pleasant."

I smiled faintly, rolling the cigar between my fingers. "Consider it done. But understand what that means. Those favors I'll be calling in aren't free, and I don't spend them casually. Don't put me in a position where I've spoken your name only for you to waste the goodwill."

Rafferty didn't answer right away.

"You won't have to worry about that," he said at last. "If you open doors for me, I'll walk through them properly. I'm not looking to burn bridges, especially not ones you're laying down in front of me. I know what you're offering here. And I'm not careless enough to treat it lightly."

"Good," I crushed out my cigar in the ashtray. "Then we have an understanding."

"Thank you for the opportunity, Croc. It really means a lot."

"Don't thank me yet. Wait until you see what I'm building, then decide if gratitude is warranted." I reached for the snail. "And one more thing, Rafferty. When you're evaluating which performers are willing to relocate, pay attention to the ones with skills beyond entertainment. Strongmen who can handle violence, acrobats that can move unseen, people who are clever and adaptable. I'll have use for them in capacities beyond the ring,"

There was a moment of quiet as he considered.

"Understood," he said carefully. "I'll keep that in mind when making my selections."

"Good. I'll expect word from you within two months. Don't be late."

I disconnected before he could respond further and set the Den Den Mushi aside, watching as it returned to contentedly munching its lettuce.

For a moment, I remained still, letting the conversation settle in my mind. Rafferty was competent, loyal enough when properly incentivized, and perceptive; traits that would make him useful beyond just another showman. If I could properly put him to work, he'd give me my money's worth in spades.

Satisfied, I leaned back and glanced at my pocket watch- a quarter hour till noon. I closed my eyes, letting the snail's soft crunch and the low hum of the ceiling fan thread through the quiet. My fingers drummed lightly against the armrest, a metronome for thought. Every piece had its place, every move its time. One more call remained, and then the board would shift again.

It was time to see what prospects Gilder had identified for my growing organization.

​

---

"Gilder speaking." The man's smooth voice announced as soon as the call connected.

"It's me." I said simply.

"Ah, Sir Crocodile. Twice in quick succession. I'm starting to feel popular." There was the rustle of papers, then he continued. "What can I do for you today?"

"Several things. First, I require you to connect me to your contacts in Alubarna. Someone who deals in information, the kind of person who knows which gossip is real and chaff, and which palms need greasing for things to move. Someone discreet."

"Hmm... I do have some contacts," he said, papers shuffling as the sound of a pen scratching carried over the line. I had clearly caught him mid-work. "Alubarna specifically, or Alabasta in general?"

"What do you have?"

"Two solid contacts that I've worked with before. One is a woman named Farah; she operates in Alubarna. Deals in all the good stuff. Local politics, business intelligence, court gossip. If it happens in Alubarna, she knows about it within a day." More scratching of pen on paper. "The other is in Nanohana. A man named Yusuf. He handles smuggling and cargo info primarily, but he usually has good general intelligence on the port city's operations."

Nanohana was interesting, the port city would matter eventually when I expanded beyond Rainbase. But it wasn't my immediate priority.

"What about Rainbase?" I asked. "Do you have anyone there?"

"Rainbase?" He hummed, the faint sound of pages turning following the sound. "No, not really. I've got a few minor contacts there, enough to keep an ear to the ground."

There was a brief clink of glass. "I can't, in good faith, recommend any of them to you, though. They're small-time, unreliable, and far too comfortable cutting corners." He paused, the distinct sound of liquid being poured carrying over the line, before taking a drink. "That said, since you are in Alubarna, correct? Farah might be able to point you in the right direction when you meet her. Information brokers tend to know one another, if only by reputation. If there's someone in Rainbase worth contacting, she'd be aware of them."

I nodded to myself. It made sense. If there was any line of work where competitors kept close tabs on one another, it was information brokering.

I pulled out a piece of paper. "How do I make contact?"

"Farah runs an ahwa in the merchant district: Peshawi's. It's fairly popular. You can't miss it.

Order the mint blend and ask if they have any 'special flavors from the mountains.' The staff that matter will know what that means. Farah will meet you in a private room within ten to twenty minutes. Bring money; she doesn't extend credit. And if no one comes for you after thirty minutes," he added, "she's not interested in doing business."

I sketched out the establishment's name, committing the code phrase to memory.

"And Yusuf?"

Gilder didn't answer immediately. He took a sip of his alcohol, set it down, and spoke in a measured tone.

"Yusuf is a more... delicate client to get a hold of. He doesn't sell information from a counter."

I raised a brow and waited.

"There's a man near the docks who repairs navigational instruments. Cracked sextants, broken log poses, the like. He doesn't have a sign. Doesn't need one. If a seeker is desperate enough, they'll find him."

I frowned. "That's Yusuf?"

"No. That's the door."

He continued. "You bring him a compass. It must be damaged, but not useless, something small. A bent needle. A leaking capsule. You tell him it doesn't point where it should anymore. Those exact words."

I nodded once, committing it to memory.

"If he takes the compass from you," Gilder said, "you leave. No questions. Come back the next evening. If he's interested, you'll be given further directions."

"Is that so?" I set down my pen. "Very well."

The information he had provided me was useful, maybe not immediately so. But it was always good to have a way to contact such a seemingly secure broker in my back pocket.

"Anything else?" I prompted him, lighting my cigar again.

"Well, that depends on what else you need. You mentioned wanting personnel recommendations last time we spoke. I've been doing some digging."

I leaned forward slightly, interest sharpening. "And?"

"Found several prospects worth your consideration. Unfortunately, the market is chock full of brawn and not enough brain. I haven't been able to identify any candidate who looked like they'd thrive at management." He paused. "But amongst this cast of brawlers, there is an impressive pair. Brothers."

"Brothers?"

"Siblings making serious waves in the underworld recently. Young, barely adults, but they've already built a reputation that has people paying attention. They work exclusively as a package deal: you hire one, you get both. But from what I've gathered, they're worth it. Took down a pirate crew with a fifty-million-berry captain last month. Just the two of them."

I took a drag from my cigar, processing that. A pair of brothers capable of taking down a crew with a captain worth fifty million wasn't trivial. That spoke to serious capability, especially if they were only teenagers.

Was this duo part of a previous Super Rookie lineup?

"That is interesting." I commented.

"Isn't it? And they're also freelance currently, not tied to any particular employer, which means they are available for the right offer."

"How soon can you have the dossiers ready?"

"A few more days," Gilder replied. "I want to build comprehensive profiles: backgrounds, confirmed capabilities, their recent work, before I send anything your way. Do you have a fax line?"

"When the material is ready," I said, "contact me. I'll provide the details then."

"Will do.

"Then we'll speak again soon," Gilder said. "I'll be in touch."

"I'll expect it," I replied.

A brief pause followed; one of those polite, professional silences where neither party rushed to be the first to hang up.

"Until then," he said.

"Until then."

The line went dead.

I set the transponder snail aside and rose from my chair, the faint creak of leather the only sound in the room. Crossing my impromptu office, I pushed open the balcony doors and stepped out into the dry afternoon air.

Alubarna stretched beneath me in strata of gold and sandstone, rooftops catching the sun as it burned overhead in the sky. The city buzzed with life; merchants hawking their wares, pedestrians milling about, and carriages threading the streets like veins carrying blood.

I let my gaze drift across the city, my mind turning to the contacts Gilder had just given me. Alubarna, as a city, talked constantly. Every deal whispered in an alley, every rumor traded over tea, every grievance aired a little too loudly in public. All rivulets of potential life changing information. Leaving without first sinking a line into that current would be wasteful.

I would be going to Rainbase soon, but it was better to listen before I moved on. Better to know which voices mattered.

If I was patient, and if I chose my points of contact well, those same currents might one day run through my hands instead.

I rested my forearms against the railing, cigar smoldering between my fingers, and waited. Rashid would arrive soon.

​

---

Rashid's carriage cut a steady path through Alubarna's high-noon traffic, the wheels crunching over stone as the city gradually shifted around us. The closer we drew to the merchant district, the louder it became. Noisier, denser; voices layered atop one another shot through with the sounds of coins ringing and fabric snapping in the breeze. The air was thick with spice and sweat and roasted grain.

The carriage slowed, then stopped before a corner establishment that seemed to spill outward onto the street itself.

Peshawi's was indeed unmistakable.

Tables and chairs; mismatched, well-worn, accumulated over years rather than purchased as a set, sprawled across the sidewalk in organized chaos. Men sat clustered in groups of two, three, four, some hunched over chess games, others engaged in animated conversation, still others simply watching the street with the patient attention of people who had nowhere else they needed to be.

The ahwa itself occupied the ground floor of a building that had seen better decades. Its facade was faded and weathered, but the place thrummed with a lived-in vitality no amount of polish could fake. The entrance stood open to the street; no door, just a wide archway that blurred the line between inside and out, between private establishment and public thoroughfare, its fascia sign hanging proudly above the archway.

I stepped down from the carriage, adjusted my coat, and let the noise swallow me.

My presence immediately drew attention. Conversations didn't stop, exactly, but they stalled. Eyes tracked me with that mix of curiosity and wariness that came from seeing someone clearly out of place. Between the cut of my coat, my bearing, and the glare of my hook, there was no doubt that I was a spectacle to behold.

That was good. This was the type of entrance that would be reported to Farah before I even ordered.

"Wait here," I told Rashid. "This shouldn't take long."

I moved through the outdoor seating area, navigating between tables with measured steps. The air carried competing scents- tobacco from water pipes, the sweet smell of flavored shisha mixing with something sharper: mint and citrus and strong coffee.

The interior was dim compared to the bright street. Sunlight filtered through patterned latticework, breaking into geometric shadows across concrete floors worn smooth by decades of use. A ceiling fan turned lazily, its slow rotation doing more for ambiance than actual cooling. Small tables crowded the space, each surrounded by mismatched stools and cushioned benches. Men lingered over porcelain cups and narrow glasses of tea, conversations unfolding at unhurried paces. Somewhere deeper inside, a backgammon board snapped shut amid groans and laughter, and in another corner, someone had spread out a newspaper, reading aloud to companions who interjected commentary between drags from their water pipes.

The walls were decorated with framed photographs; black and white images of Alubarna from decades past and portraits of previous proprietors, interspersed with more recent color prints. A few brass implements hung as decoration: an old coffee pot, a decorative tray, pieces that spoke to tradition.

At the back of the establishment, a counter separated the main seating area from what must be the preparation space. Behind it stood a man in his fifties, weathered and heavily built, managing three conversations simultaneously while coordinating orders with practiced ease.

I made eye contact with the man, then proceeded to an unoccupied table in a remote corner.

When an attendant approached, I didn't look up right away.

"Welcome, sir." His voice carried the practiced hospitality of someone who'd greeted thousands of customers. "What can we prepare for you?"

"Mint blend," I said, pulling out my cigar case. "Do you have any special flavors from the mountains?"

The attendant didn't blink or give any outward reaction towards the code phrase. He simply nodded once and disappeared toward the counter.

I waited, taking in the ambience of the establishment. Around me, cups clinked, dice rolled, and patrons laughed. Somewhere near the entrance, a man complained about hiking prices in caravan security to his partner who clearly didn't care.

A minute passed by before I saw the man behind the counter approaching my table, the attendant trailing a step behind him.

"Sir," he greeted politely, offering a short bow.

"Amjad will show you to the private room." He gestured to the server. "Someone will be with you shortly."

I nodded, rose, and followed him.

We left the seating area and passed through a curtained archway tucked along the back wall. Beyond it, a narrow stairwell climbed away from the noise below, our steps echoed louder as we ascended. At the top, the stairs opened into a short, quiet hallway. Amjad walked to the door at its end and held it open for me, ushering me inside, before disappearing without a word.

The private room was small, I concluded, as I took in the surroundings. A low table surrounded by cushioned seating, a window overlooking a side alley, and- I knocked against the dry wall- thick walls that would muffle conversation from curious ears. A single lamp provided warm light, and the ceiling fan here actually seemed to move air with some efficiency.

Five minutes later, the door opened and Amjad returned with tea on a brass tray. The glass was small, filled with a pale, translucent brew tinted faintly yellow-green, fresh mint leaves steeping within, and sugar cubes were set alongside, more than I'd ever use. Was that proper tea tradition?

"The Missus will be with you shortly," Amjad said, bowing slightly before departing again.

I sipped the tea. It was hot and mild, gently sweet even without the sugar, the mint flavor was soft rather than a menthol edge. This was spearmint, or something close to it. This world's equivalent of spearmint.

I wondered idly whether the leaves were grown locally, coaxed from greenhouses and garden beds despite the desert, or brought in at cost from elsewhere. Either way, someone had gone to the trouble. Peshawi's took its beverages seriously, even if it was just a cover for information brokering.

Time passed slowly. Three minutes, then five, then seven. I waited with patience, reaching out with my Observation, feeling the rhythm of the cafe beneath me. The steady flow of customers, the consistent hum of activity, the occasional spike of emotion when someone won or lost a game.

This was a liminal space, I noted. Neither fully public nor fully private, neither completely respectable nor entirely disreputable. It was the kind of place where business happened in the margins, where deals were struck in low voices, where information changed hands as casually as hookahs.

It was exactly the kind of establishment that would house an information broker.

At the ten-minute mark, a presence settled just beyond the door. It paused, lingering, then the latch turned.

The woman who stepped in was beautiful, with bronze skin, thick curls of jet-black hair flowing over her shoulders, and a shapely body that filled out her lake-foam sari quite nicely. She wore a tasteful looking pair of white sandals and henna patterns ran along her fingers and across the back of her hand in complicated swirls and loops, tapering off at the crook of her elbow.

"Sir Crocodile." She closed the door behind her, moving to sit across from me with sensual grace. "I'm Sayyida Farah. Gilder said you might be seeking my services."

The floral scent of jasmine tickled my nose as she settled into the cushion, and I leaned back to gesture at the tea setup.

"He did. The tea is excellent, too."

"I will pass your praise on to the staff," she smiled pleasantly, onyx eyes regarding me with a mix of curiosity and wariness as she folded her hands atop the table. "But how exactly may I help you?"

"I want to purchase information about Alubarna," I declared. "And enlist your assistance to connect with contacts in other cities who deal in the same kind of intelligence you provide here."

Farah's expression didn't change, but something shifted in her eyes; a flicker of interest that was quickly smoothed over. She reached for the teapot without asking, pouring herself a glass with unhurried poise. The movement caused notes of her jasmine perfume to swirl again, and I held myself from breathing in too deeply.

"The other cities," she repeated softly, as if tasting the word. "What interesting locations of curiosity for a man of your... standing." She sipped her tea, dark eyes watching me over the rim of the glass. "And such interest in our dear capital... are you planning to call Alabasta home for a while yet, Sir Crocodile?"

I took a drag from my cigar, letting smoke curl between us.

"I have business interests that extend across the Kingdom, yes," I said evenly.

"Mm." She set down her glass, fingertips tracing its rim in a slow, absent pattern. "Of course. A man like you wouldn't come all this way for something temporary." Her smile was warm, inviting. "Word going around says you've been busy. I heard there was a meeting at the palace. That must have gone well, if you're already thinking about this kind of arrangements."

The comment landed lightly, almost casually, as if she were simply making conversation rather than confirming intelligence about my movements.

"The meeting was productive," I allowed.

"His Majesty is such a thoughtful man. Careful, too. He wouldn't meet with just anyone." Her fingers stilled on the glass for a moment. "It speaks well of you that he took the time. Though I imagine a Warlord brings... certain considerations that make such meetings worthwhile for both parties."

She was dancing around the edges, probing without seeming to probe. Testing how much I'd volunteer. It was easier to see than I'd have thought.

"I offered him something he found valuable. He offered me the same in return. That's how productive negotiations work."

"So diplomatic." Farah's eye crinkled fractionally in mirth. "You must have been very persuasive. Even though His Majesty grants audiences fairly easily, I can hardly see him entertaining the proposals of most. Especially from those whose reputations precede them so... dramatically." She leaned forward slightly, smooth locks of hair flowing with the movement. "Though I suppose when one holds your position, dramatic reputations are simply par for the course. The Grand Line doesn't cultivate subtlety, does it?"

"It doesn't encourage it, no."

"And yet here you are, seeking information rather than simply imposing your will." Her voice remained soft. "That suggests a different approach than most powerful men take. More... sustainable, perhaps?" She paused, locking eyes purposely with me. I stared back dully, and the curve of her lips deepened. "May I ask what sort of information you're hoping to acquire? General intelligence, or something more specific?"

"Both. I want ongoing coverage of Alubarna's political and business landscape. Who holds influence, which merchant guilds are ascendant, how the nobility operates, which families matter and which are declining." I tapped ash into the tray. "I also want early warning if my name comes up in conversations that matter- if someone's plotting against me, if there's interest in my activities beyond the normal scrutiny."

"Ongoing monitoring, then." Farah's fingers resumed their tracing pattern. "Not a one-time consultation, but a sustained relationship." Her eyes found mine, warm but assessing. "That's quite an investment. But, dear Sir. You speak as if you won't be physically present to digest this information." She tilted her head. "Where will you be, if not here?"

I crooked an eyebrow at her. "Rainbase."

"Ah," she drawled, the sound escaping on a soft breath. "The City of Dreams. How fascinating." She leaned back slightly, hands cupping the glass. "It's quite different from Alubarna's structure and order. A place where fortunes change hands every minute over dice and cards." Her smile was knowing. "Though I suppose someone with your talents might find opportunities there that wouldn't exist in a more... structured environment."

"Opportunities exist everywhere. It's a matter of recognizing them."

"Indeed." Farah's gaze didn't waver. "And Rainbase certainly has opportunities, doesn't it? Entertainment, hospitality, all those industries that thrive on human vice and ambition." She paused delicately. "Is that where your interests lie, then? The entertainment sector?"

She'd inferred it from my destination and my background. I couldn't find it in myself to be impressed. Still, I let a small almost unnoticeable up-curve grace my lips for a second, certain she wouldn't miss it.

"Perhaps."

"How prudent." She nodded, calculations clearly running behind her eyes. "Then you'll need someone in Rainbase who understands that city's particular ecosystem. " She tilted her glass. "Though I imagine that's why you asked about a contact there."

I exhaled smoke. "It is a relief you follow."

"Well, I can certainly help with that. But first—" she set it down firmly, "—let's discuss what you need from me here in Alubarna. You mentioned ongoing monitoring, but that can come in many ways. Are we talking about weekly reports? Monthly summaries? Real-time updates when something significant occurs?"

"Monthly reports, with the understanding that you'll contact me immediately if something urgent develops. I want to know if there are shifts in the political landscape that might affect my operations or if any individual of import begins to take an interest in what I'm doing."

"Very sensible." Farah's fingers drummed against the table, a bit too close to me, in a gentle, thoughtful beat. "Though I should ask: when you say 'operations,' are we discussing something His Majesty is aware of? Or are there activities that might benefit from remaining... less visible?"

This woman...

"Everything I do in Alabasta will be either explicitly sanctioned or operating within legal boundaries. I have no interest in creating complications with the Crown." I lied.

"Of course not. That would be terribly inefficient." Her smile was warm, approving even. "It's so much easier when one can operate openly. Or at least, openly enough." She leaned forward again, voice dropping to something softer. "For what you're describing: comprehensive monitoring of Alubarna's political and business landscape, early warning systems, monthly reports with urgent updates as needed, I would structure it as a monthly retainer. Three hundred thousand berries."

I did not have the pre-existing knowledge to judge whether that was a fair price range, but I supposed it didn't matter. I would not haggle.

"That covers general intelligence gathering across the capital, monitoring of conversations in noble circles and merchant guilds, and up to two detailed inquiries per month on specific subjects." She paused. "Additional inquiries would be fifty thousand berries each. And of course, all reports would be delivered discreetly to whatever location you specify."

"I'll be setting up a fax line within the week. You can send reports there."

"Perfect. " She clapped her hands in delight, beaming. "Now, regarding the Rainbase contact you mentioned. May I ask what level of intelligence you're hoping to acquire from them? Similar to what I'm providing here, or something more focused?"

"I'll discuss scope directly with them once I arrive. For now, I just need an introduction."

"Fair enough." Farah's expression shifted, becoming more conspiratorial though the warmth never quite left her voice. "There's a woman in Rainbase who does what I do here. She calls herself 'The Bookkeeper.' She maintains financial records for legitimate businesses as cover, but her real business is information."

"How do I contact her?"

"Last I heard, she was operating out of an accounting firm called Nadeem & Associates. I don't know if she still uses that particular cover but..." one eye closed briefly in a knowing wink, "we're in luck, because I have her contact information."

She reached into the folds of her sari, the fabric shifting to reveal a glimpse of bronze skin before her hand emerged holding a small business card and a pen. The card was cream-colored, elegant but understated. It spoke of professional quality.

Farah flipped it over with fluid ease, her tattooed fingers moving the pen across the back in smooth, flowing strokes. She wrote briefly, then set down the pen and extended the card toward me.

Her hand was cool when it brushed against mine as I took the card. It carried her jasmine scent with something muskier beneath it. Amber, perhaps, or sandalwood. Something that lingered even after her hand withdrew. All the while, she held eye contact, something flickering within her limpid gaze.

I glanced down at the card. The front bore the name "Sayyida Farah" in neat printed characters, her number nestled beneath it. The back now held a Den Den Mushi number written in a curvy script, along with a single word: Bookkeeper.

"That's her private line," Farah said, settling back into her cushion. "When you call, mention my name. She'll know you're legitimate and not wasting her time." Her manicure nails clipped against the glass. "Though I should warn you, even with a referral, she'll still verify you're worth dealing with before agreeing to anything. The Bookkeeper doesn't work with just anyone, regardless of title or reputation."

"Understood." I tucked the card into my coat pocket. "Anything else I should know?"

"Just that she's expensive. And she doesn't play favorites." She smiled slightly, almost sympathetically. "But if you can afford her prices and operate professionally, she'll provide exactly what you need. She's survived in Rainbase this long because she's very, very good at what she does. I consider myself the same."

I nodded in understanding. I could respect the hustle.

"Then we have terms. Three hundred thousand per month for Alubarna coverage, two detailed inquiries included, and additional inquiries at fifty thousand each. You'll send reports via fax once I send you the details."

"Almost." Farah held up one elegant finger. "There's the matter of the first month's payment. I require it in advance, to establish the relationship and demonstrate mutual good faith." Her smile widened. "After all, you're asking me to monitor some very powerful people on your behalf. That carries certain... risks. I need to know you're serious about this arrangement."

Fair enough. I pulled out a substantially bulky envelope and set it on the table. "There's six hundred thousand berries in there. Do with it what you will."

Farah picked up the envelope, her slender fingers closing around its girth, measuring. She didn't count it. Whether that was a way of her showing her trust in me, I didn't know.

"Then we have an agreement." She smacked the package against her palm. "Your monitoring has already begun. You should have your first report within the week. Welcome to the Lattice, dear customer."

She rose with that same fluid grace, tucking the envelope somewhere within the folds of her robe where it disappeared completely. She smoothed the fabric with an absent gesture, then offered me that warm, knowing smile.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, Sir Crocodile, I'm afraid I have other appointments to attend to. The work never quite stops, you understand." Her head inclined slightly. "But please, finish your tea. Take your time. Amjad will show you out whenever you're ready."

"Of course."

She moved toward the door, paused with her hand on the frame, and glanced back. "Every success to your pursuits. I look forward to our continued correspondence."

Then she was gone, the door closing softly behind her, leaving only the scent of jasmine in her wake.

I sat alone in the private room, the silence settling around me like dust. The ceiling fan continued its lazy rotation overhead, cutting through air with a very faint whir.

I reached for my tea- now lukewarm- and took a slow sip, processing the conversation that had just concluded.

Farah was good. Exceptionally good. The entire exchange had been a performance, really. Every movement calculated, every question designed to extract information while appearing to simply make conversation. The way she'd probed about my meeting with Cobra, tested the boundaries of what I'd reveal about my plans, and assessed whether I was someone worth the risk of monitoring Alubarna's power structures on behalf of.

And she'd done it all while maintaining that veneer of sensual charm, using beauty and warmth as tools the same way I used intimidation and reputation.

I could respect the craft of it, even if I hadn't given her everything she'd been fishing for.

The "Lattice," she'd called it. Interesting terminology. If the wording were to be taken literally, it would mean that she considered her network ordered, connected and with proper support systems. Perhaps it was a web of interconnected sources all feeding into each other with her as the head.

Or perhaps it was just good marketing. Time would tell.

I took a drag from my cigar, exhaling smoke that curled toward the ceiling and dispersed in the fan's weak current. The business card sat on the table before me, cream-colored and innocuous. I picked it up, studying the neat script on the back:

(444)-XXX-1270

Bookkeeper.

This tiny card was the beginning of my own information network; something that would become critical to my future operations.

Hmm...

​

---

The carriage descended the plateau's western ramp at a steady pace, Rashid guiding the camels with a sure, practiced hand. Other carriages and merchant wagons passed us on their way up toward the capital, their drivers exchanging brief nods with Rashid as they carefully maneuvered around one another. Through the window, I watched throngs of people flowing up and down the massive flight of stairs carved into the sheer wall of the plateau, the steps funneling endlessly into the city above.

At the plateau's base, the landscape opened into rural expanse. Scattered farmsteads spread across the terrain; low and practical structures built to endure heat and wind rather than impress. Their fields laid outward in careful plots, dotted by date palm trees, agaves and other drought resistant crops I couldn't name.

The population thinned here. There were no crowds, no vendors calling out prices, no sense of urgency. Just farmers bent over their crops, the occasional shepherd guiding a slow-moving flock, and tiny family-sized hamlets. Beyond them, the land stretched open and unguarded, the city was already beginning to feel remote.

It was along this stretch that the road began to assert itself. The carriage's motion smoothed, the camels' gait settling into an easier rhythm as packed earth gradually gave way to laid stone. The transition was, without a doubt, the result of maintaining a trade route ensuring smooth passage for the commercial traffic that flowed between Alubarna and the river port.

Twenty minutes into the journey, the population density began rising again. Small clusters of buildings appeared first, then larger structures, until we entered what was clearly Alubarna's harbor town: a settlement that existed to service the river trade connecting the capital to cities downstream.

The place bustled with energetic mid-morning activity. Warehouses lined the waterfront, their loading docks alive with workers hauling crates and rolling barrels between storage halls and waiting ships. Merchants shouted prices and instructions in equal measure, voices overlapping as deals were struck on the fly. The smell of fish, sweat, and brine: standard port-town signatures hung in the warm air, carried along by a restless breeze off the water.

Behind it all flowed the Sandora River.

It dominated the town's horizon, wide and unhurried, its surface catching the sun in shifting bands of light that shimmered with every ripple. Barges and rivercraft moved steadily along its breadth, sails slack or furled, trusting the current to do most of the work as they headed south. Somewhere far beyond the bustle of the docks and the noise of commerce, the river would widen further, travelling the entire length of the island before feeding directly into the Grand Line near Erumalu.

To my right, far beyond the sprawl of buildings, the land rose into the faint outline of the Northern Mountains. Their silhouettes cut against the sky, distant and pale in the morning light, marking the river's distant source.

Ships of various sizes clustered along multiple docks, their masts creating a forest of vertical lines against the sky. Most were cargo vessels, their holds being loaded or unloaded with the noise of trade. But several were clearly passenger ships, their sleek forms sacrificing cargo capacity for speed.

Rashid guided the carriage toward one of the passenger docks, pulling to a stop before a small-sized carrack that stood out from its neighbors. The vessel was perhaps thirty meters long with a graceful nymph figurehead carved at the prow. Her paint was cured and unweathered, and her rigging was properly tensioned even as some members of the crew hung from the tapestry of ropes and chains.

A painted sign near the gangway read: River Blessing - Captain Hakim.

"Here we are, sir," Rashid said, climbing down from the driver's bench. "Right on schedule. She's set to depart at nine."

I stepped out, studying the vessel with professional assessment. It was indeed not luxurious. But it would make the journey competently barring the most ludicrous of circumstances.

A man approached from the gangway, broad-shouldered and powerfully built, his height nearly matching my own. He was dark-skinned, with a thick black beard framing prominent lips and a face set into lines carved by years under sun and wind. A turban was wrapped neatly around his head and he was draped in layers of breathable fabric. He carried himself with the quiet assurance of a man whose authority had been earned deck by deck, voyage by voyage.

As he reached us, he spread his hands in an open gesture of greeting.

"Sir Crocodile," he said, his voice a deep, rumbling baritone that seemed to resonate from his chest. "I am Captain Hakim. Welcome aboard the River Blessing. Your cabin is prepared, and we'll be casting off within the half hour."

"Captain." I inclined my head slightly. "Rashid speaks well of your vessel."

Hakim's mouth curved into something that might have been a smile. He glanced back toward the ship, pride evident but unshowy.

"Aye. She's a real beaut." He gestured toward the ship. "We'll make good time to Rainbase; should arrive by early evening if conditions are favorable. Your cabin is on the stern deck. Among the most comfortable accommodations on the vessel."

Then he paused, his expression becoming slightly more cautious. "Though, if I may, sir..." he tapered off, silently asking permission to finish.

"Yes?"

"It's not every day we ferry a Warlord, sir. The crew is professional, but some of them are nervous. If you could perhaps stay in your cabin for most of the voyage, it would help maintain calm among my boys and the other passengers."

A reasonable request, actually. My presence would make people nervous, which could create unnecessary complications during what should be a straightforward journey.

"I have work to do anyway. You won't see much of me." I pulled out a cigar. "But Captain Hakim, understand something clearly: if there are problems during this voyage- pirates, bandits, whatever else might attack a river vessel- I will be handling such threats personally. I do not enjoy interruptions."

His expression shifted from nervous to something approaching relief. "Understood, sir. Though I should mention we rarely have trouble on this route. The Sandora is well-patrolled, and most bandits know better than to attack passenger vessels this close to Alubarna." He waved over one of his crew. "Ali will show you to your cabin once your luggage is aboard."

Rashid had already begun moving my trunk from the carriage, working with one of the ship's crew to maneuver it up the gangway. I watched the process with half-attention, more focused on observing the harbor's general activity.

The River Blessing wasn't alone in preparing for departure. Several other vessels showed signs of imminent travel: crew making final preparations, passengers boarding, supplies being loaded. Further down, an official-looking vessel slipped its moorings and began to glide downriver- likely one of the aforementioned patrols perhaps.

"Sir Crocodile."

I turned to find Rashid approaching, my trunk successfully loaded. He looked satisfied, professional pride evident in his bearing.

"Everything's aboard and secured in your cabin. Captain Hakim's crew knows their business. You'll have a smooth journey."

"Good work, Rashid." I pulled out a substantial wad of cash, pressing it into his hand before he could react. "For your efficiency and discretion."

His eyes widened as he felt the weight of the money, significantly more than we'd agreed upon. He tried to resist.

"Sir, this is too much—"

"It's exactly what your service was worth." I clapped my hand on his shoulder. "Remember my words. Keep yourself available."

"Of course, sir. Always." He bowed slightly, genuine gratitude evident in his mannerism. "Safe travels to Rainbase. And... good fortune."

"Thank you." I smiled briefly in acknowledgement.

He stepped back with another bow, returning to his carriage. I watched him guide the camels back into harbor traffic, the camels' hooves clattering against stone and timber, until he melted into the crowd before turning toward the River Blessing.

I took a step forward and climbed the gangplank. The wood felt firm beneath my boots, the quiet hum of preparation resonating through the ship. I ran my eyes along the lines of the deck, the polished brass fittings, the slight sway of the ship beneath my weight, and found satisfaction in the smooth order of it all. I waved over the young crew mate who would show me to my room and followed him unto the ship proper.

It was time to board.

-.-.-

My cabin was exactly as advertised: the most comfortable accommodation on the vessel, which essentially amounted to the bare minimum furnishings present in a proper room. An actual bed rather than a hammock, a desk and chair bolted to the floor, a porthole that offered a view of the river, and a washbasin in the corner.

I settled into the chair, watching the bustle of the harbour through the glass. The River Blessing stirred beneath me as the lines were cast off. There was a subtle shift at first: wood easing against stone, tension bleeding out of the hull, followed by the unmistakable sensation of movement. The ship slipped free of the quay with practiced grace, oars pushing her clear while the sails were coaxed open above. The harbor sounds changed as well, the sharp closeness of the port giving way to something broader, looser, a tad more distant.

Through the porthole, the shoreline began to drift. The docks slid past in measured increments, replaced by open water as we cleared the bay. The wind caught the canvas properly then, steady and favorable, and the River Blessing leaned into it as if eager for the journey.

Other vessels moved with us. A pair of caravels fell into line astern, their course matching ours as they took the western route. Off to the south, other ships peeled away, turning toward Nanohana and other southern destinations, their silhouettes angling gradually out of view. For a time, we all shared the same stretch of water, a quiet procession easing out of the harbour's reach before the routes diverged.

I watched until the town became a suggestion on the horizon, then leaned back as the ship settled into her rhythm, bow pointed west, toward Rainbase.

-.-.-

The journey settled into comfortable monotony.

The River Blessing maintained steady progress, cutting through the currents as the crew made occasional adjustments to sail and rudder. I remained in my cabin as promised, content to observe the passing landscape through the porthole and think through plans for Rainbase.

An hour into the voyage, there was a cautious knock at the cabin door.

I looked up. "Enter."

The door opened just wide enough for a young crewman to slip through with careful, rigid movements. It was Ali. His hands trembled slightly as he carried the tray, eyes fixed anywhere but on me.

"Sir," he said, voice tight, "the captain sent tea."

He set the tray down as if it might explode, gave a stiff bow, and waited, clearly unsure whether he was meant to leave immediately or remain until dismissed.

"Thank you," I said neutrally.

That was enough. Relief washed over his face. He bowed again, deeper this time, and retreated, closing the door softly behind him.

I turned my attention to the tea. It was black and hot, with a strong bitter fragrance. I lifted the cup and inhaled deeply before taking a sip.

The astringent aroma of malt spread through my mouth in pleasant waves and I breathed out steam. It was good.

I didn't reach for the sugar.

The thought struck me idly, almost with surprise. In another life, I would have. I'd favored sweetness then- milk, sugar, anything to soften the edge. Somewhere along the way, that preference had been sanded down and replaced with something mature, more refined.

Crocodile's palate, I supposed. Mine.

Either way, I found I didn't miss the sweetness. It was an appallingly comfortable thought.

I drank the tea slowly as the River Blessing cut westward through open water, the steady creak of the surrounding wood and the muted rush of the river settling into the background like a familiar, reassuring silence.

-.-.-

By midday, the cabin had grown hazy.

Thick enough to sting the eyes, and dense with the slow, lingering weight of smoke that clung to fabric and wood alike. The door opened, and a crew member stepped inside carrying a covered tray. He made it perhaps two steps before stopping, his face contorting as he fought back a cough. Then another. His eyes watered as he hurried forward, setting the tray on the desk with more haste than grace.

"S-sir," he managed, blinking through the haze as he set the tray down. "Your meal."

I glanced at the air, then at the ashtray on the side table. Another cigar burned low between my fingers, and I realized with some mild amusement, that at some point, without quite meaning to, I had gone through more than I'd intended. How many? Six? Seven?

I waved the smoke aside, more out of courtesy than necessity. "You may go," I sent him off.

He didn't hesitate. One more hurried bow and he was gone, the door shutting behind him with clear relief. I could hear him cough behind the closed door.

I lifted the cover from the tray, revealing the meal beneath. Rice pilaf fragrant with saffron and cumin, tender chunks of lamb in a rich gravy dark with spices, flatbread still warm enough to steam slightly, a small bowl of lentil dal, and pickled vegetables on the side. It was a generous spread. Much more, I suspected, than what was usually served onboard.

I ate mechanically, my mind wandering as I chewed.

The smoke-filled cabin was... excessive, admittedly. But I'd been burning through cigars at a steady rate for hours now, each one lighting automatically after the previous one finished. A habit, really. The ritual of smoking giving structure to time that would otherwise pass in formless observation.

Which raised an interesting point about consumption patterns.

How many people in this world smoked like this? Not casually, but habitually, compulsively, the way I did? Characters from the show like Smoker who always had not one, but two cigars clenched between his teeth at all times. Individuals I'd had relations with across the world. Brokers, pirates, marines.

The smoking culture wasn't just popular, it was rampant, pervasive, epidemic.

And it was ripe for the taking. Tobacco wasn't rare, it grew well in various climates, and pipes and cigars were common enough in every social class.

But quality varied dramatically.

The cigars I smoked were expensive. Premium tobacco, careful rolling, proper aging. Most people couldn't afford them, wouldn't even know where to source them even if they could. They smoked whatever local product was available, acceptable but unremarkable.

This was a gap I could fill.

I tore off a piece of flatbread, using it to scoop up lamb and rice, chewing thoughtfully.

Nobles who wanted to demonstrate their wealth. Merchants who'd made fortunes and wanted the trappings of success. Pirates and Brokers who cultivated particular images.

All of them potential customers for premium product if it was positioned correctly.

The supply chain would be complex- sourcing quality tobacco, securing aging facilities, hiring skilled rollers. But the margins on luxury goods were substantial, and tobacco itself wasn't difficult to grow. It was the processing, the branding, the artificial scarcity that created value, turned smoke into gold.

I spooned a mouthful of the dal, the lentils spiced with turmeric and something sharper, possibly asafoetida.

Monopoly over the high-end market would be key. Not trying to compete with every local producer, but establishing a brand that meant something. That signaled wealth, taste and exclusivity. Limited edition releases that spiked demand due to their rarity. Perhaps even custom blends for specific clients: personalized cigars that couldn't be obtained anywhere else.

It fit naturally with the other operations I wanted to build. Casinos catered to wealthy clientele who expected premium amenities. Offering exclusive cigars would enhance that experience while generating additional revenue. The production facilities could be located anywhere with suitable climate, but the sales would flow through my establishments into my operations and fuel my goals.

I finished the lamb, moving on to the pickled vegetables. They were tangy, sharp with vinegar and spices that cut through the richness of the previous dishes.

Something to investigate once the foundation in Rainbase was solid. After the initial business acquisitions, after the core operations were established and generating reliable income.

I made a mental note to discuss it with whoever ended up managing finances. Add it to the list of expansion considerations, filed away for future development once the immediate priorities were handled.

For now, it was simply another thread worth tugging on in the future.

-.-.-

The afternoon passed in comfortable isolation. The River Blessing maintained steady progress, no obstructions occurred as it sailed peacefully towards its destination.

At some point, I dozed off on the bed, the gentle rocking motion and steady sound of water against hull lulling me into something approaching actual sleep. Crocodile's body didn't require much rest, but when it did demand sleep, it came quickly and deeply.

I woke to a change in rhythm.

Not the ship- that remained steady- but something else, a subtle disturbance trailing behind us. The sound of water had shifted, no longer the uniform rush against the hull, but a periodic churn; splash, a lull, splash.

I rose and moved to the porthole, peering down along the ship's wake.

At first, I caught only movement. A darker shape slipping beneath the surface, then gone. It was too large to be common fish, and too controlled to be debris. My mind ran through possibilities automatically.

A Sea King would have been impossible this far inland. Bananagators were more plausible, though crocodiles tended toward ambush rather than long-distance pursuit.

The shape surfaced again, just long enough for me to catch a glimpse of a rounded shelled back and a flash of movement before it slipped under once more.

I frowned, leaning closer.

Again. This time higher. A head broke the surface briefly: smooth, unmistakably mammalian, and topped with carapace, followed by what looked suspiciously like arms pulling through the water with affected ease.

I stared.

Is that–?

It surfaced once more, closer now, and the picture finally resolved itself in full.

A Kung Fu Dugong.

It swam with relaxed confidence, riding the ship's wake as if it were the most natural thing in the world, popping up every so often before diving again. I watched it in silence, my earlier caution giving way to a strange amalgamation of disbelief and curiosity.

How it had made its way into the river was a question I didn't even know where to begin answering. I distinctly remember Vivi saying they were sea water creatures.

As if sensing my attention, the dugong surfaced again, this time lingering. Its beady, black eyes looked up to the porthole and found me.

Then it raised one flipper and waved.

I blinked. After a brief moment of hesitation, I lifted my hand and waved back.

Its face lit up instantly, an unrestrained, infectious joy spreading across its features. It took a deep breath, gave an enthusiastic nod, and slipped beneath the surface with a final splash.

I waited for it to resurface.

A few seconds passed. Then a minute. The water smoothed out behind the ship, the wake returning to its earlier, unremarkable pattern.

The dugong didn't come back up.

I exhaled and sat back down in the chair, shaking my head faintly as a slow, amused smile crept onto my face.

That hadn't been on my bingo card.

Still… I couldn't say I regretted crossing it off.

The knock came just before sunset.

"Sir Crocodile," Captain Hakim said from the doorway, respectful but unceremonious. "We're nearing landfall. Another ten minutes."

I acknowledged him with a nod and rose, shrugging on my coat before stepping out onto the deck.

The light had shifted by the time I emerged from the cabin, late afternoon bleeding into evening, the sun sat low on the horizon, painting everything in shades of amber and rust. After seven hours at sea, the sight of land felt less like relief and evoked more a sense of natural transition. The harbor ahead was already alive with motion, masts and cranes cutting dark lines against the sky as the River Blessing eased into the traffic of arriving vessels, an exact replica of its sister port at the eastern bank.

The docks spread out before us in organized chaos. Porters shouted to one another as cargo was unloaded, merchants argued prices mid-step, and the non-stop rhythm of commerce continued to march on despite the late hours. Everywhere, carriage drivers hawked their services, calling out destinations and prices to disembarking passengers in voices worn smooth by repetition. Some leaned casually against their rigs, others stood tall and alert, eyes sharp as they scanned each arriving passenger for opportunity.

I rested my hand against the railing and watched them work, scanning for the man Rashid said he'd arrange as I waited for my trunk to be unloaded.

The description had been vague- "average appearance, professional, knows Rainbase well"- but Rashid had promised the driver would identify himself clearly.

So I lingered, letting my gaze drift across the crowd below, attentive without urgency, confident that when the right figure caught my eye, there would be no mistaking it.

I spotted him quickly.

A short, slight man stood apart from the competing drivers, holding a plaque that read "Sir Crocodile" in neat script. He wore airy clothing, and a well-groomed handlebar mustache gave his face character. Most notably, he wasn't shouting or competing for attention, just standing calmly with the plaque, confident that his passenger would find him.

I descended the gangway, one of the crew following with my trunk and the driver's eyes found me immediately, and he moved forward with measured steps.

"Sir Crocodile." He said in a slightly accented voice. "I'm Aarav. Rashid arranged for me to transport you to your destination in Rainbase. My carriage is ready when you are."

The crew member set down my trunk, and I handed him several coins for his trouble. He nodded gratefully and retreated back up the gangway.

"Excellent," I said. "Let us secure my lodgings for the night, shall we? Somewhere appropriate; quiet and comfortable. We'll head for the city in the morning."

Aarav's mustache twitched upward in consideration, and I forced myself to ignore the hilarity of the animated movements.

"Of course, sir," he turned and gestured with an open palm toward a modest but well-kept carriage waiting a short distance away. "I know just the place."

He secured my luggage, lashing it tightly to the rear of the carriage before holding the door open for me. Once I was seated, he climbed up front and flicked the reins with a practiced motion.

The carriage rolled forward, wheels rattling over the uneven stone of the docks before smoothing out as we left the harbor behind. The noise faded quickly- shouts, gulls, and bargaining voices swallowed by distance- replaced by the quieter rhythm of hooves and the whisper of wind off the desert.

The town unfolded in a low sprawl around us, buildings and sand battling for supremacy as they framed the sides of the roads. Lanterns were being lit one by one, casting warm halos against the encroaching dusk.

"How long to Rainbase from here?" I asked, breaking the silence.

Aarav didn't turn. "By carriage? It depends," he said easily. "Speed, weather, the state of the roads. If one pushes hard, perhaps a day. More reasonably two. With poor conditions, it could hit three or even four."

I hummed in acknowledgment and leaned back against the seat, letting the motion of the carriage take over. My eye slid shut and I savored the warmth of the desert air hitting my face.

Soon. Very soon.

I would be in the City of Dreams, and the first step of my plans to survive the coming apocalypse would finally take off in earnest.

The desolate ambience of the satellite settlement felt less lonely with that thought.

​

---

Once again, I apologize. Both for the short chapter and how late it's coming.

Something to note about the more austere readers: I have taken a bit of creative liberties to interpret the map of Alabasta. I believe I may yet fail to do it justice, but it is my attempt at making sense of the bonkers geography of the Blue Planet.

 

[SIMPDESTROYER1]

Problem I have is everyone speaks the same with little difference in character, they all use the same fancy speech with the same tone. And to repeat myself it just doesnt differentiate them, its like I am reading Croc speak to Croc the whole time while it drags on with them saying the same thing in 5 different fancy ways over and over. Otherwise seems like it could go somewhere, I am still gonna read.

 

[Vine_sama]

Problem I have is everyone speaks the same with little difference in character, they all use the same fancy speech with the same tone. And to repeat myself it just doesnt differentiate them, its like I am reading Croc speak to Croc the whole time while it drags on with them saying the same thing in 5 different fancy ways over and over. Otherwise seems like it could go somewhere, I am still gonna read.

Click to shrink...

That's a bit concerning, seeing as I did try to give the various characters their own 'voice'. Is it their choice of words when dealing with him? I suppose I'll have to work on that.

 

[SIMPDESTROYER1]

That's a bit concerning, seeing as I did try to give the various characters their own 'voice'. Is it their choice of words when dealing with him? I suppose I'll have to work on that.

Click to shrink...

I think its just how everyone speaks using the same fancy speech, we know SIr Crocodile is a dapper sly kind of fellow, but why is everyone else too?

 

[King Yama]

Why is Si Croc following his Og version path again is it cause the remnants of the Rocks are still the strongest in the New World seas and any operation building there would be just absorbed by the Yonko's

 

[Vine_sama]

Why is Si Croc following his Og version path again is it cause the remnants of the Rocks are still the strongest in the New World seas and any operation building there would be just absorbed by the Yonko's

Click to shrink...

Because in his opinion, the OG plan wasn't a bad plan overall. With some minor change on direction and motivation, he believes it'd be a good plan to carry out. Especially considering that the world would be ending soon (that's how he sees it)